


The Magnus Letters (circa 1816)

by thelairoevie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Because I write him like that without thinking, Don't let me fool you: This is a story about Jon, F/F, F/M, Famous horror stories AU, Ghost of a horror writer Jonah Magnus, Ghost possesions, Jon actually does some Archiving, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Vampire Jonathan Fanshawe, grad school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelairoevie/pseuds/thelairoevie
Summary: One summer between popular author Jonah Magnus and his close friends resulted in the genre of horror as we know it today. What if they left behind more than just a bone-chilling legacy?Jonathan Sims is a sleep-deprived PhD candidate working under the leading expert in ghost stories. When he goes looking for unpublished stories, he uncovers the truth about what haunts the streets of London at night.Updates every Thursday!
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Georgie Barker & Melanie King & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael "Mike" Crew/Tim Stoker (background), Some one-sided attraction on behalf of most of Jonah's cohort
Comments: 54
Kudos: 47





	1. My mind’s eye, unbidden

It was a summer of darkness. Those of a scientific mind would speak of volcanic activity to the east, of ash in the air blocking the sun. To others, it seemed the edge of an apocalypse to see the sunless august frost and hear tales of red rivers, black snow. It was unnatural, a year without summer. It was June of that year when four young men came to stay at the villa, rented from the family von Closen, on the shores of a beautiful Swiss lake. 

These were some of the well-known men of high society--a generation’s budding poets, scholars, and gentlemen. The von Closen house was as infamous due to a long standing connection to the strange and the occult. The events in that house, in that summer, were groundbreaking, and would change the world of ghost stories for years to come. 

* * *

The order and manner in which guests arrived was as follows: 

First was Jonah Magnus, the host himself. He arrived with the sun, the glow of it accentuating his hair. He stood out, a scotsman against the archetypal swiss. He moved with grace and efficiency, and was lucky enough to miss the rain with his arrival. Jonah was the sort of man who needed to oversee everything in his realm. Naturally, he had to attend with the small staff with his slow but serviceable German. Things had to be well in order for his guests. 

Jonah was a gentleman and a scholar, and, as he was best known, a writer. His specialty lay in the more horrific stories, ghosts and demons and the like. While his interest in the occult was deep and genuine, it did not hurt that as a subject it had taken London by storm, and his works along with it. ‘The Most Brilliant Star’ was a title he’d managed quite recently, between his attendances at well-known drawing rooms. The language of love came just as easily to him as the language of fear, despite his constant bachelor status.

His arrival was followed by that of the ever-punctual Doctor Jonathan Fanshawe. His oiled coat had a thin sheen of water on it, and when he cleaned his glasses of the rain, he directed a dry look at Jonah. His hair dripped onto his eyes, until Jonah reached over to comb it back with his fingers, allowing the water to set it in place. If any of the staff noticed the gesture, they did not comment.

“Not going to be much in the way of typical summertime activity, you may have noticed,” he commented. “I do hope you have other plans.”

“But of course,” Jonah replied, and he returned to his observation of the villa. “There’s a lovely piano, and all manner of books. I imagine Mordechai would be interested in a game of cards.”

“I suppose the weather will clear eventually.” Jonathan’s tone softened as he spoke, Jonah noticed with pride. He knew the extent of his own charm, and the effect he might have on the others. Exercising its use was always gratifying. 

It was as they began to catch up on their lives, the third man arrived. Rather than take a carriage, Barnabas Bennett took a train into Switzerland, and made the rest of the journey on horseback. Jonah expected him to regret the ride, as he found the wind and wet a miserable affair himself, but Barnabas cheerily shrugged it off.

“I’ll be just fine with a change of clothes, Jonah. Besides, there’s something to the rain. Reminds you you’re alive to feel it.” He shook the droplets from his sandy hair, and Jonah had to restrain himself from making a face as they hit him. He glanced at Jonathan while Barnabas shed his coat and vest beside him, forming a puddle on the floor.

The doctor gave them both an amused look. “As a physician, I will have to warn you of the dangers of exposure to the elements. Only you could find the rain such a romantic concept, Mr. Bennett.” 

Barnabas gave them a bright laugh and his best reassurances.

It wasn’t until night fell that Mordechai Lukas rode in, forcing his carriage to ride through the storm. His thick mass of coats and furs was undone without grace in the foyer, and until his large, finely adorned form was revealed, completely dry. 

“I don’t believe there will be any return trips to England, gentlemen. I barely made it here as it is.” The large man commented, when finally free of his expensive clothes.

“It would have a shame if you had been kept from coming.” Barnabas replied. He said this as if there were anything that Mordechai wanted that was ever denied him without drastic consequence. It was the basest reason for his acquaintance to Jonah- they were both men who knew, and got, what they wanted.

“Now then, my friends,” Jonah addressed the group. “It seems we’re all together once more.”

* * *

The rain did not let up for the better part of the week, but there was plenty to do. Barnabas was rarely the sort to rise with the sun, especially when the sunrise was not available to view. When he did awake, however, there was coffee with Jonathan, who told him about his practice in town. He saw such strange and interesting people, and had many stories to show for it. He was working on a study, he told Barnabas, involving sleepwalking. 

Barnabas, in turn, told him about his writings. “I’ll admit, Jonah has seeded a fascination in me,” he said between sips, “In the principle of life. Whether man, like many animals, is merely an instrument.” 

“And which side do you take?” Jonathan’s dark eyes met his with deep interest, and Barnabas found himself flustered, and a little flattered. Jonah and Jonathan were the scholars and philosophers of the group. Barnabas had his own talents, but his opinion was not as high held as theirs, certainly. Barnabas was there to have a heart, not a mind. And yet here Jonathan was interested in what he had to say. 

“I think there is more value to a man, or a beast, for that matter, than his use. The natural state, or the state of happiness, even, is a contribution to those around him beyond that. It’s why I struggle so with the demands of war--if a man is to be only a weapon, he is being wasted.”

“We are more than just bodies, then,” Jonathan remarked, which Barnabas took to be an agreement. 

“Indeed.” 

After that, there was music and dancing. As much as he loved to lead Jonah in a dance, it was so much more pleasing to hear his sweet tenor voice, accompanied by the deft hands of the doctor, put to good use on the piano. The rain kept their time, and soon enough Barnabas found himself led onto the floor by Mordechai’s hand. Barnabas himself was not a small man, but he found himself dwarfed by the other’s stocky form, and so allowed himself to be led for once. 

“You’re an excellent partner,” Morchechai remarked, and then said no more.

Barnabas refrained from the afternoon game of cards, preferring instead to sit in the doorway to the gardens to work on his writings. Jonah and Barnabas both may have been authors by trade, but Jonah had his family money behind him-- Barnabas needed to publish to eat. At this point it was his life, raising loans and avoiding his debts. He had an awful habit of leaving such tiringly _contrived_ issues, the ones between men, unaddressed.

Jonah, as ever, became his muse. It was popular, of course, to write of natural beauty, and perhaps of the Christian faith, but in his mind those things paled in comparison. It was his dear friend, his beautiful intellectual, who resurfaced in his mind. Jonah had the most amazing mind for things, usually terrible things in dark places, waiting to prey on the innocent maiden, but amazing things nonetheless. His words sank into your heart and remained there. 

Barnabas admired him so.

> _While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped_
> 
> _Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,_
> 
> _And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing_
> 
> _Hopes of high talk with the departed dead._

When the light from the sun began to impede all other activity, Jonah would draw one of the books from the von Closen library, and in an artful voice recount their tales. Not all their company could understand German, so his account of the translation was what Jonah read. He spoke in a soothing, liliting tone, and as he became absorbed in the words his accent emerged. That little bit of Scottish in his voice was enough to warm Barnabas to his toes. That secret side of Jonah that only came out when it was late, and there was little company, it felt special.

* * *

On the night of the 16th, the night of the second worst storm, Jonah finished his dramatic regale of the risen undead, and slammed the book shut. 

“No more reading, I can no longer bear it. I have a question, for you all, and perhaps a wager,” he said. The fireplace cracked and flickered behind him. 

They all kept to the main room of the villa: consolidating the resources of heat and light and company in an attempt to maintain comfort. The room itself was beautiful, even in the dark, and the light of candles and the fire revealed the collection of books and finery. Each man stood in a housecoat, but in otherwise varying levels of dress: there came a time where even men on the highest order dropped their armor before their closest friends.

Mordechai, his eyes like steel, leaned forward at the mention of a bet. There was no need for him to prompt Jonah to speak further, so he said nothing. Barnabas--pulled out of the daydreaming he led to the drone of Jonah’s voice--merely looked dazed. 

“Gentlemen, how much do you know on the subject of immortality?”

A spread of reactions, ranging from the stricken look of Barnabas’s face to the dry amusement of Jonathan greeted him. The good doctor turned to him from his own reading, eyebrow raised. 

“A righteous man would call it the devil’s work, a realistic man would call it impossible,” Jonathan offered. “Surely, you mean only in stories.” 

“And if I did not?” 

Jonathan gave him a look. Careful, curious. “Then, I’d tell you about the Moscow experiments in blood transfusion. I hear they’re making significant progress.” 

Beside him, Mordechai let out a laugh that would have been jovial if that were a feeling Mordechai was capable of eliciting. “So that’s the secret to it. The wonders of modern science. I say this: I have yet to find a thing on this earth that doesn't come with a price. Immortality is simply something no man has yet to afford.” He tapped his unlit silver pipe absentmindedly. 

Jonathan obviously restrained a bitter retort at that. In Mordechai’s world, things existed in dues and balances, and his family name meant he was owed the most. He hadn’t worked his way through on prowess of skill, just a large score of land and prospects. It didn’t set his philosophies to suit someone so hardworking and modern as Jonathan.

Or Barnabas, for that matter. His thoughtful tone countered Mordechai’s cold words. “I’ve met plenty of men who are dead while still breathing,” he said, “so I would say immortality has little to do with the body itself, and more to do with essence, with soul. If I put enough of my soul on paper, and if on that page I am remembered, I do think I’d be eternal enough. The only fear would be living long enough to make that memory.” 

His speech was rewarded with a wide smile from Jonah, brighter than any flame or lightning flash, and assuredly more dangerous. “You may have an idea, there, my dear. The wager is this: I bet my life and its works to the man who comes closest in his descriptions of immortality, a concept we have our entire lives to find. To prevent cheating of any sort, we write the tale of it, here and now. That way, too, you don’t lose any of that precious time to preserve your soul, dear Barnabas.” 

“And if we die before the winner is decided?” Mordecai prodded, feigning interest in the etchings on his pipe. 

“Then you most assuredly are not the winner,” Jonah asserted. “And your estate is added to those of the survivors when someone does win. I’m sure we can find a suitable lawyer to work out the details.” 

Jonathan proposed an addendum. “I’d like time to arrange both my research and my affairs. Would the rest of the year be a suitable time frame to begin this properly?” There was no disagreement. 

Eyes met, and if lightning struck when their hands reached out to shake on it, well. There was never a more fitting coincidence. 

* * *

“I think I know what I will write,” Jonathan announced over the glass of brandy they had decided to share before bed. “As I have no interest in featuring myself.” It was the truth. Jonathan’s studies were usually not in himself, not when there was so much strange and interesting about other men. The University of Edinburgh was not in the habit of publishing treatises done on men like himself, anyways.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to Jonah, a character considered as charming by society as he was considered mad. “No, my character, as man and monster should be more interesting. An intellectual, cunning and arrogant. Prone to weakness of pleasures, or of some pleasing substance. Lord Ruthven--Scottish lordship, of course.” He looked Jonah dead in the eye. He waited for a reaction out of the man he was being none-too-subtle in describing. “His skin pale with moonlight, unable to flush with modesty or effort. His eyes, a dead grey, made gold by magic.”

Jonathan did not have the dramatic finesse of some of his companions, preferring to approach things in a straightforward manner, but it did not take a degree to tell a story. Sipping his drink and feeling the warmth of it wash over him, he drew out the pause, and studied the others. Jonah certainly seemed amused, his eyes dancing in the light. Jonathan noted the deliberate way the other man passed his glass between his lips.

Jonathon chose that moment to continue his story. “There's a dangerous allure to him. He hypnotizes you with a look. And then! He takes you by the neck and drains you of your blood, to sustain his life and his youth. The Vampire.” It was a good way to accomplish many things. A dramatic story, yes. A bit of fun at the expense of an old friend’s ego, as well. More importantly, he could in one fell swoop shine a negative light on the outdated procedure of bleeding, and bring attention to the patent of the transfusion. On top of it all, he perhaps could win a bet.

Beside Jonah, Barnabas let out a sleepy laugh. “An excellent story. We have many monsters and ghosts in this house tonight.” 

Mordechai’s let out a low hum. “I shall write about a foolish doctor,” he stated, eyeing Jonathan, who let out a short sigh in response. “Who meddles in things he does not understand.” It would have been threatening had he not known Mordechai so well. Instead, Jonathan just raised his glass in salute and finished the liquid inside. 

“All the better for it,” Jonah commented. “Since we all seem to know each other so well. I was just going to write about ghosts and be done with it.”

With that, he rose from his seat, and they began to bid each other a good night. Jonah and Barnabas left together, and Mordechai shortly after trailed away leaving Jonathan to read in silence. The house was full of books, although most seemed to be the entertaining and not informational kind.

He would write to Albrecht about it later.

* * *

Sleep was not easy for many in the house that night. Despite being curled tight into Jonah’s side, Barnabas bemoaned the cold, and the faint light from the door suggested that Jonathan still sat awake, nose buried in some text or correspondence. 

Jonah himself felt sleep keep its distance from him. He filled its absence with waking dreams, turning the concept of eternity over in his mind, inspecting it thoroughly. 

When the idea came to him, he rose halfway in his bed, reaching to the side of it to scratch out a letter to another dear friend, Robert Smirke, still in London on business. His hands fiercely worked the charcoal pencil Barnabas had left on the bedside; he would have to redraft it in the morning. 

> _“I saw the vivid form of a man stretched out, and then, on paper beside him, the contents of a man’s entire soul. Upon reading it, as I watched, his mind was first seeded with and overtaken by the other. I believe this to be the secret into eternal life. You, of all our company, must well understand the power in words.”_

And from that moment, the seeds of the greatest works of Jonah Magnus were born. 


	2. Words are things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Sims finds himself with an archival project and no idea where to start.

Jon woke up to the god awful buzz of his six AM alarm. The sun wasn’t up yet, and it wasn’t like he had anywhere to be before eight, but he had mountains of grading work to do before he needed to be in to see his supervisor. Best to get a few words down for his thesis, too. He stumbled out of his bed with a groan and made his way towards the kitchen, just to be up and somewhere other than his room. Before walking out the door, he leaned over to grab his laptop, a hefty and outdated thing. 

In his kitchen sat Georgie, his ex-girlfriend-still-roomate, wilting behind a laptop screen and a cup of coffee. She appeared to be more sweater than person. If he wasn’t so far from awake, he might have been fond.

“Oh, morning,” she offered, cheerful despite the evident exhaustion. “Er, what time is it?”

He mumbled back something that was supposed to be a number, but she seemed to get the message. 

“Great. I’ve been up all night looking into the phantoms of Christchurch. Do you know how varied the reports are of the ghost haunting Soho bar?” She put her head in her hands and he gently patted her shoulder. They both tended to do that, staying up all night just to source some meager piece of necessary information. No sleep for PhD students or amatuer podcasters. She shook off her frustration with a sigh, before turning to him with a calmer look. “Well, there’s coffee. If you want it.” 

Jon didn’t usually drink coffee, actually. It was acrid and bitter, and it made his hands shake. However, he found himself reaching for a mug anyway. “Thanks.” 

They sat there for a few minutes as the sun rose around them, reading through various articles and pointing out the few things that they found interesting or amusing as they went. The camaraderie made the morning less miserable, if only by a fraction. The coffee was enough to give Jon the suggestion of energy, and Georgie had always been enough to get him to laugh. 

Jon struggled with what he wanted to say in his thesis. He had so much to think about in terms of this subject, but it never seemed to come out in the volume he wished to say. 

> _ Typically consumed horror fiction largely stems from the genre of Gothic horror, or horror that is focused on the intensity of the emotion it evokes- a pleasurable experience both with and without catharsis. Gothic horror dated back 18th and 19th centuries and into the Victorian era. It is rooted to the idea of the awesome, not just as the amazing, but as the unusual and sublime. The effects of the Romantic period wave on Gothic horror are entrenched in every modern slasher film, and define the genre to this da-- _

A little notification from Jon’s phone got his attention away from his typing.

“Oh, crap.” His eyes widened and he hastened to stand. The thrum of energy from the caffeine was quickly tumbling into anxiety in his stomach. That was today. 

Georgie took a second to react, looking up at him with confusion. “What’s up?”

Jon closed his laptop with a click and answered as he made his way to his closet. “Meeting with Dr. Bouchard. He wants to see me about my thesis. Said something about a  _ big project coming _ , or whatever that means. Probably going to give me even more things to work on, as if I didn’t already have enough on my hands.

“No rest for the wicked, huh?” Georgie replied, shouting from down the hall. “Want me to sic ghosts on him?”

“That reminds me, get some sleep!” he called back to her, pulling off his band merch T-shirt to replace with a more respectable, collared shirt. She mumbled something in return as he bustled past her into the bathroom, but he didn’t hear what. 

He splashed water onto his face, and struggled to get through his slightly-too-long hair with a ratty hairbrush. It wouldn’t stay down or back like he wanted to, and so he gave up, instead pulling on his jumper and going for his shoes. Dr. Bouchard would just have to accept Jon’s 7:30am best. Georgie shouted her goodbye from across the house, jokingly offering to egg the professor for him. He gave a rushed pat to the sleeping cat, shoved all manner of papers into his bag, and then he was off.

* * *

The building for Literature and the Arts was one of the oldest and most ornate buildings on campus. Georgie, who had gotten her Bachelors there, had once insisted to Jon that it was the most haunted. The stairs certainly complained as much as Jon’s knees as he made his way up. Of course Dr. Bouchard’s office was on the top floor; his existence was an enigmatic balance of being London’s most respected expert on Jon’s favorite subject and a being built for the one and only reason of causing his misery.

He arrived at the correct door five minutes early, only looking a little sweaty and disheveled. He let his mind wander as he collected himself, only to be startled out of his thoughts with a cold hand on his shoulder. Dr. Bouchard was standing behind him. He wasn’t a tall man, necessarily, but he was taller than Jon. His age showed on his hands and his hair, but he was the kind of handsome that came with well-fitted suits and expensive cologne. Nearly everything he did upset Jon slightly, though at one time he might have considered him his hero.

“Jon! Excellent. It’s about time for our meeting, isn’t it? Come, let’s get inside.” He moved his hand to Jon’s elbow instead of removing it, just another small torture that Jon grit his teeth through.  _ Think of graduation,  _ he told himself,  _ dream of publications and specialized seminars. _

The professor’s smile spread over his face like a smear of grease. “I have wonderful news.” he said. 

Jon didn’t know what to say to that, and did his best to make do with a semi-interested expression. “Oh?”

“I’m giving you the lead role on my newest project, with the school archives. Rosie can take over your teaching duties for it, you’ll be busy enough with this. You’ll still have to grade exams, of course.”

“Of course,” Jon echoed, trying to hide the relief at no longer being forced to teach the worst possible curriculum. His brain caught up with the feeling, fast. “Er. I don’t have any experience in archival studies.” 

“You’re an incredibly intelligent student, Jon. I imagine you’ll do fine.” Dr. Bouchard waved a hand like that was somehow enough to alleviate the issue. “You’ll be excited to know that this project concerns the curation and digitization of the letters and unpublished works of Jonah Magnus. The university intends to put on some form of exhibit, at some point.” 

There was the spark of excitement that usually lit itself within Jon when his exact branch of studies was mentioned. Jonah Magnus, maybe the first proper gothic writer of his time, was central to every ghost and monster story that Europe had seen since his time. Jon’s favorite pastime had long been reading his works, and then systematically tearing them to shreds. In a figurative sense, of course. Unlimited access to unpublished works would be exactly what he needed to add to his thesis. 

Jon looked up to see the professor's smile. He must know this was an offer Jon could never refuse. He held his gaze for a moment, worried about the cost of this offer, and then let his excitement take over. 

“Yes, of course. Thank you so much for the unique opportunity. I- I won’t let you down, Doctor.” He reached over to shake the man’s hand. As soon as they touched skin, he regretted the gesture. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“Please, Jon. Call me Elias,” the professor said, and then shook his hand like he had no intentions of letting go. “I expect great things from you.” 

* * *

And then, suddenly, Jon found himself in the hall, nearly shaking apart with anticipation, overflowing with information about his new assignment. Dr. Bou- no,  _ Elias _ \- had given him a rundown of the planning and arrangements he needed to make by the end of the day. Most of it was the paperwork for establishing access to the archives, he’d need to email the right people about getting access on his ID. There was some basic timeframe and duties list that Elias had provided that he assured himself he would go over when his head stopped buzzing quite so much. 

There was also the matter of putting together a team. The apparent downside to this project was that Elias wanted to give him an “independent, hands-off” experience, and the usual head archivist, Dr. Gertrude Robinson, was on extended sabbatical. Elias outlined two positions that Jon could select people for, under any relevant department. There was a sizable stipend to offer. 

This would have been rather nice, except for one glaring issue- Jon didn’t really know anyone who would be willing to work with him. He started to walk while he thought. Georgie had once described him as ‘about as easy to get along with as an overly opinionated cactus’ when they broke up, and more often, (and more charitably) he’d been told he was awkward. While he did have friends, enough to form a basement punk band, at least, he wasn’t wildly popular in his own subject area. His sharp tongue assured that. He could count the peers he got along with on one hand. 

He stopped into the cafe that jutted out the side of the building, open, but not for long enough to have grown busy. The smell of baked goods and hot tea caused a clench in his empty stomach. He could worry about it all while he was eating. 

Soon enough Jon had a pressed sandwich in hand and his laptop open in front of him. It looked like what a lot of what Elias wanted him to do was obtain the letters and writings in question, scan and transcribe them, and then ensure that they had the correct maintenance and preservation. After a few minutes of googling mounting and databasing techniques, someone sat across the table from Jon.

“If it isn’t Jonathan Sims! How are things going in literature land?” a deep, affable voice sounded. Jon glanced up to see a familiar grin. 

“Oh, hello, Tim. Fancy seeing you up this early.” An idea formed slowly in Jon’s head as he took a bite of his sandwich. Jon had known Tim since they were both getting the Bachelors in English a few years ago. He was a favorite with young female (and male) students then, with his personality as playful and colourful as his shirt. People used to wonder why the two of them got along, but Jon was always grateful to have him around. “Ah, actually. I think I’d like your opinion on something.” 

“Sure thing. I don’t have anything on until this evening,” Tim said with an easy shrug. He sipped something iced out of a personal mug.

“You said you were looking for a career-related job, yes?” Jon tried, and found that everything came out more awkward that he would have liked. “How much would you know about working in an archive?”

“Hmm...Pretty much… nothing!” Tim replied. “But I’m a fast learner. Why, did you find something?”

“I’m the one hiring.” Jon pulled a paper out of his neat stack and passed it over to Tim. It was the page Elias had typed up about the assistant position. “I… I don’t know who else to ask, really. The pay looks decent, and it’d be a huge favor to me. I know it’s not exactly the kind of publishing work you’d like.”

Tim mused over it for a few tense minutes, bouncing his leg in his seat in time with Jon’s frantic heartbeat. Jon mused the irritable, stressed-out downside of having quit smoking while he waited. He settled for pushing the teabag in his cup around with a spoon.

“I’m in,” Tim said, finally. “And I think I know who you want on your team. What do you say, Boss? Do you trust my opinion?”

Not for the first time that day, Jon found himself relieved. Tim was nothing if not easy to work with, and if anyone could smooth talk Elias or random archival technicians to get them what they might need, it would be him. They had gone through senior year finals together, and so Jon knew exactly how well Tim handled fast learning and high pressure. This might not be so bad after all.

“Despite the warning signs,” Jon joked, “I do trust your opinion, yes. Who do you have in mind?”

“You’ve met Sasha James before, haven’t you? Star doctoral candidate of the history college?” Jon did know her, having met her at various conferences and presentations, and worked with her on the numerous smaller interdepartmental activities that Elias and the other college heads loved so much. However, it had been a while, and he was having some trouble picturing her face. 

“Yes…?” 

Tim gave him a grin that was equal parts ecstatic and amused. “ _ Great.  _ She’s writing her thesis on the year without summer, she’d love access to 19th century fan mail. I’ll call her.” 

Jon’s mind was spinning. It was all coming together rather quickly. He remembered he was supposed to be a leader here, a professional, and so he did his best to gather himself. “Right. Good, I’ll… would you bring her around sometime this evening to discuss? There’s a lot to get started on.” 

* * *

Turns out, Sasha James was tall, had long, curly hair, and was considerably more competent than Jon himself could really hope to be. She walked into the restaurant 5 minutes early (Jon himself having arrived two minutes before that) with a binder full of neatly-kept research notes and half an analysis written up in clean, tight handwriting. She smiled easily, like she knew exactly how this would go. 

“Jon! It’s been a while,” she greeted when she saw him. 

“Oh- Yes, Sasha. Good to see you.” Just glancing at her notes in passing, it felt like Sasha was overqualified for an archive specialist job. Suddenly the chances of having everything work out seemed much smaller.

“Tim said you had some kind of job offer? I wasn’t really sure what he meant, and he almost refused to be clear about it. Anyways, I thought, ‘why not?’ Jon’s pretty interesting, and I haven’t seen him for a few months. Anyways, I’m not going to turn down free dinner.” 

Jon agreed with her quietly. They made small talk for a few minutes while they waited for Tim. Sasha was apparently working pretty closely with the archives when Dr. Robinson suddenly left for her sabbatical, something about a trip to China. 

“She’s a  _ mythic bitch, _ ” Sasha explained. “I was never sure if I should be impressed or upset by her. Honestly glad that I don’t have her watching me every time I go for a document, you know? But I’ve never met anyone who’s known as much about, well,  _ everything. _ ” 

Jon let out a surprised laugh at someone calling one of the expert staff members a  _ bitch.  _ He had never met Dr. Robinson in person, but had assumed she’d be some kind of bookish old cat lady. Like a librarian out of a film. The way Sasha described he made her seem like some kind of secret agent. 

A few minutes in, Tim came sweeping in, shuking his jacket to reveal a red-patterend button up. “Sasha!” he called, leaning down to kiss her cheek, a gesture that she playfully batted away. “You decided to show!” 

“Of course I did. With the fuck-all information you actually gave me, I was too curious to stay home.” 

At this, Tim gave Jon a sly wink, as if there was some conspiracy between them that Jon knew nothing about. “Well, I’m glad anyways,” he announced. “Now we can plot to take down the head of the english department for good!” 

Sasha burst out laughing at this, and Jon, despite shaking his head, found himself smiling. Maybe working with a team wouldn’t be so bad after all. Then the conversation died down, and he found himself at the uncomfortable end of Sasha’s expectant gaze. “So, what did you  _ actually _ call me in for?” she asked.

Jon took a deep breath and steepled his fingers together. “Yes. Well, you see, Elias has assigned me to head up a rather large project, and I was wondering if I could commission your help. It does overlap a lot with the focus of your thesis, and there’s a stipend in it for you, if that helps.” Jon showed her a document he’d spent most of the afternoon arranging, that went over the terms and expectations that Elias felt the need to spread out over a full packet. He did his best to go over what he needed in detail. Sasha’s expression remained unreadable the whole way. Jon tried as best as he could to sounds like he knew what he was doing, but his words came out clipped and harsh. 

Finally, she responded. “Look, Jon. It’s a really cool project, and I’m really happy for you! But, I’m going to have to say no.”

His face fell before his heart caught up with it, plummeting into the floor. Of course. “I-” He began, but she continued.

“It’s not that it wouldn’t be nice, because it would! I’d love to get to work with you and Tim, and I do need to look into all kinds of documents from 1816. But, well. If anyone should be running this sort of thing, it should be me, and we both know Dr. Bouchard won’t go for that. I have the better credentials, and the experience. He didn’t even feel the need to reach out to me before you did! Plus, I’d rather not give any help to the local glass ceiling.” 

“...right. I understand.” Jon stared into his water glass until food arrived on the table. He pushed his pasta around with his fork and Sasha and Tim struck a conversation about something unrelated. He didn’t have any hard feelings towards Sasha, God knows academia was hard enough to navigate when working  _ with  _ the flow of general bias, but this did mean he was going to have to work hard to find another person as soon as possible. 

Rejection hit him in a way that he thought he really ought to have grown out of by now. Despite this being in no way a personal situation, it felt like a personal failing. Yet again he itched for something to do with his hands, to reach for a cigarette. He sighed and tried to remind himself not to do anything rash. He was Jonathan Sims, PhD candidate, and he had a project to run. He forced down the stress of it weighing on his neck, and made an attempt at a pleasant evening.

* * *

That night, when he returned home to Georgie, she must have seen the effects of the day on him, because she thrust a mug into his hands. Cocoa. 

“Spill,” she said, in such a way that people who didn’t know her direct and open personality would take it as an order. Jon took it as an offer.

“I’m not going to spill a bunch of perfectly good chocolate,” Jon replied, dryly. “You just gave it to me.” The joke was his way of saying ‘it’s really not that bad’. It was certainly easier than voicing anything about how he actually felt.

She laughed at that, and blew a raspberry. “I know you had a meeting with your Dr. Bastard, or whatever his name is. I want to know how it went!” 

The events of that morning felt like they had happened a week ago. “He took me off of teaching, finally. I’ve got a new project down in the archives.” 

Georgie looked skeptical. “Do you know anything about… archiving?” 

“No,” Jon replied. “And so far, my luck with assembling a proper team hasn’t been great, either. We’ll have to see when I go in tomorrow. I do get to read some of the unpublished works of one of the greatest horror writers of all time, though.” 

Georgie’s eyes lit up. “Special secret ghost stories unlocked? Willing to share any of those with the podcast?” She asked, fluttering her eyelashes in mock innocence. 

“Maybe. We’ll see if I don’t burn it all down on accident first.” Jon leaned back into the couch, and Georgie sat beside him. He pulled open his laptop and proceeded with his usual routine of avoiding working on his paper and refreshing his email. 

In his inbox was an email from E. Bouchard. 

> _ Hello, Jon,  _
> 
> _ Apologies for the last-minute decision, but I needed to make sure everything was in place. I just had a conversation with someone from the history department, and wanted to let you know that I have secured the assistance of Miss Sasha James for her team. Her supervisor has already been notified. I understand that you may have attempted to recruit her earlier. Now, there is no need, all has been arranged. I expect you to meet me with the rest of your team tomorrow morning, so I may establish your work. _
> 
> _ Cordially, _
> 
> _ Dr. E Bouchard  _

_  
_ Jon wished he could articulate why yet another announcement that should have filled him with excitement instead made his stomach twist with unease. 

_ See you then,  _ he sent back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know! Two whole introductory chapters! I swear there will be more action next week. Thank you so much for your patience.


	3. Only the eyes had life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day on the job, for our archival crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this came in so late! It's been... eventful, back home.  
> Texts mentioned: Darkness - Lord Byron, Melmoth the Wanderer- Charles Robert Maturin, La Belle Dame Sans Merci- John Keats  
> Enjoy!

Jon’s first day of working in the Archives, and he was late. His bus was delayed by almost 30 minutes, and he was beginning to sink into a crushing panic with each one that ticked by. When he finally reached the bottom floor of the library, having thoroughly ruined the way he had combed his hair that morning, he was out of breath and out of his mind. 

He took a deep breath before opening the door to the archives. “Good morning, I apologize for the--” Tim and Sasha were at a big counter in the center of the room, arm wrestling. His anxiety twisted into something more frustrated, and, if Tim’s reaction was anything to gauge by, so did his face. “I see I haven’t missed anything.” 

Tim started saying, “Well--” at the same time Sasha started saying “Actually--” and she took the opportunity to slam his hand into the table. 

“Actually,” she said, “we started hunting down known associates of your Magnus guy so we can find all his letters. The guy has a  _ ton _ of interesting friends. I guess 18th century high society is a small world.”

Jon quirked an eyebrow at that. Leave it to Sasha to get everything running while he was away. Thinking about it now, Jon didn’t even have a plan for where to start in collecting the relevant materials. Systematically going through his friends for mentions of Jonah was as good an approach as any. Certainly better than what he had. “Oh, that’s- that’s a decent start, actually. How far did you get?”

“Well,” Tim started. “That’s the problem. Sasha wants to start with Mordechai Lukas because of his political sway. I want to start with Robert Smirke, because I have his stuff out already, right over there.” 

“It’s definitely not just because you’re obsessed with an architect,” Sasha teased. “We could start with the von Closen household, if you don’t like Lukas.” 

Jon put his fingers to his temple, prepared to rub out a headache. “No one wants to start with the writings in German. Let’s just look at Smirke, I hardly know anything about him.”

Tim jumped in to fill in the details. “He was an architect in the 18-teens. Did a lot of the Classic buildings around London. Published a book on architecture that I read as an undergrad, and I just found out he has an unpublished manuscript that we’ve just had lying around in the Archives.”

A fascinating glimpse into the material he was supposed to be lording over, but hardly useful. Tim’s biggest flaw was his distractibility. “...And how is this relevant to 19th century ghost stories?”

“Because Smirke was an incredibly religious and superstitious man. And, because his manuscript starts with an account of his acquaintance to ‘my dear Jonah’.” Tim was clearly pleased with himself. “Look, they’ve got a stack of letters to each other right over there. Let’s just do a little digging, find something nice for the exhibit?”

Jon let out a sigh. It wasn’t the first thing he wanted to do, but he needed to start somewhere. 

“Okay, okay. Let’s have a look at Robert Smirke. Sasha, you’re the most familiar with procedure around here, do you mind if...” He paused to take a deep breath. “I do need your help.” He looked to the floor rather than her face.

Sasha just made a good-natured hum. Whatever inevitable grudge she probably held, she was good enough to not display it obviously.“ We need to take a digital record of all this before we can use it. Tim can transcribe while I photograph, if you’d like.” 

Jon agreed. There were a lot of rules to the archives he hadn’t known about before, especially concerning some of the letters. 

“Anything on cotton should be pretty safe,” she said, “but early wood paper is really good at falling apart. We’ll try to keep those mounted where they are unless there’s tape.” She began outlining the standards for working with cloth and paper, and Jon reluctantly let her direct them, explaining as she went along. Apparently, a few decades ago, it was popular to mount things with particularly destructive tape. 

* * *

Other problems arose almost immediately after they manage to keep one slip of paper from entirely disintegrating. Some of the letters Smirke wrote wouldn’t photograph. Sasha tried multiple cameras, a scanner and her phone, but all returned blurred out and strangely overbright. The only thing that was close to legible was a tiny, personal polaroid. 

The letter like this that they discovered was dated well near the end of Smirke’s life, and Jon read through Tim’s transcription while Sasha tried and failed to get a picture.

The letter itself seemed to be some last-minute plea to Jonah to end his latest ventures, whatever they might have been. Smirke was afraid of something, something to do with his book and to do with Jonah. Some passages stood out to him.

> It is telling that of those I have brought into my confidence, it is only you and I who have continued this far without falling to some damnible ail or fate worse than death. 
> 
> ...
> 
> I’m sure you recall what happened with the laboratory of Fanshawe, and his many  _ other _ experiments below the very streets of London. Places I have tried to cover with churches, of all things, in the faint hope that… perhaps the site of our Saviour will be enough to contain the evil within them. 
> 
> ...
> 
> In the Master’s chambers there is a book. It tells me a story that will curse me upon reading, and yet I cannot stop. I know that if I ever finish before I wake, the thing that shall wake will not be me.
> 
> ...
> 
> I offer you a passage, from a favored sermon of mine:
> 
> 'At this moment is there one of us present, however we may have departed from the Lord, disobeyed his will, and disregarded his word—is there one of us who would, at this moment, accept all that man could bestow, or earth afford, to resign the hope of his salvation?'
> 
> ...
> 
> I finished my manuscript. It sits in my study and haunts me there. 
> 
> ...
> 
> There is only so long until it overtakes me. My humble hope is that it may be a swift death, an accidental effect of your own research, which I once again implore you to abandon. It is likely too late for me, but I will  _ not _ –

“Did you not finish this transcript?” Jon asked, focus pulled out suddenly from his reading. The Archive, supposedly temperature controlled, felt several degrees colder.

Tim looked up from his laptop and glanced at the page. “Nope. It cuts off. I guess Smirke never got around to finishing. Maybe that was when he dropped dead?” Tim was joking, and Sasha laughed along with him, but the idea sent shivers down Jon’s spine. Something didn’t feel right. In fact, something felt very, very  _ wrong. _

Maybe Smirke was just a very strange man. Maybe he and Magnus had some sort of horror-based letter correspondence going. It would certainly explain the story that the letter seemed to tell. If anyone asked Jon about it, he knew that that is what he would say. Smirke trying his hand at a scary story. Nothing more. 

But something beyond that logical part of him wasn't happy with that explanation. There was something more to what Smirke was talking about and it was definitely sinister. Jon just wasn’t sure to follow his instinct to run, or his urge to dig deeper. 

He made a choice, just then. “You said we had Smirke’s manuscript? I want to follow up on this.”

Sasha passed him a sealed box with a glass window for the papers. “Knock yourself out, but I’m pretty sure you can’t use it.” 

Jon would have to determine that for himself. The preface to the manuscript, which was visible from the outside, was a list of Smirke’s inspirations for the story itself. One particular section caught his attention. 

> For the rest of the Tale, there are some parts of it which I have borrowed from real life.
> 
> The 'German's Tale' has been censured by a friend to whom I read it, as containing too much legend and romance to be realistically true. I have written it, regardless.
> 
> The story of the Scholar and the Lovers is founded in fact.
> 
> The original from which the Man of the Island is imperfectly sketched is a living man, and  _ long may he live. _
> 
> * * *

Carefully, so as not to accidentally ruin the thing inside, Jon opened the box. 

The first part of the story entailed a scholar named John, a student in Dublin, who finds a portrait of a man named “Melmoth”. The account was very focused on a specific detail of the portrait, Jon noticed. It mentioned reddish hair, a beautiful, cruel-cut face, and went into excruciating detail about the eyes. The final line in the description was a quote, from a much older poem.

“Only the eyes had life, they gleamed with demon light,” he read aloud.

“Spooky,” Tim commented, not looking up from his work. Sasha let out a small giggle.

Jon gave her a strained smile, and tried to deny the feeling of eyes on himself, staring from somewhere unknown. He was just being unusually affected by a scary story. The main character did share his name, but that was hardly uncommon. There was a reason he dropped the ‘h’ in his own shortening, if only to differentiate himself from so many others by a single degree. The only person who might be staring at him was Sasha, who he might have been wrong about, in terms of resentment. 

Briefly, he pictured Georgie’s face if he were to mention this.  _ It’s haunted,  _ she’d say in a the dramatic tone she used for her podcast,  _ I thought you’d have been warned off of creepy old books.  _ It was preposterous. 

John in the story was asked by a dying man to find Melmoth, and promised to do so with haste. Upon leaving the funeral, he began his search. 

John dreams of Melmoth, to see him the next day in the distance, laughing at a shipwreck on the Irish coast. When John approached, he fell into the sea, and was rescued by a German, who shared his own Melmoth story.

The page meant to have the story on it appeared to be missing, as the last sentence cut off abruptly, and none of the other pages seemed to fit it. As Jon looked, he began to realize that more than one page was missing, specifically the ones detailing the stories that each new character told. The Tale of the German, The Tale of the Lovers and the Tale of the Island man were all missing, leaving only the brief introduction of it’s characters. 

The only thing he was able to glean from the remainder was that Melmoth was a man who sold his soul to the devil in exchange of eternal life, and ever after he has been looking for someone to take the pact in his stead. 

It was, to Jon, completely useless.

“Is there somewhere else in the archives the missing pages of this would be?” Jon asked the room, not expecting a good answer. 

“Nope!” Sasha replied cheerily. “If it’s not in there, we wouldn’t have it.” 

Jon put it all back, and considered how the description of Melmoth was so close to the description of Jonah Magnus in every painting and writing Jon could think of. The otherworldly beauty, red hair and sharp eyes. Smirke must have used him as inspiration. “Maybe we can use this.” Jon motioned towards the ruined manuscript. “It’s obviously about Magnus, and there’s a cryptic letter about it that was meant for him but never sent. This isn’t the first time his known associates used him as a character--he’s pretty famous for it actually. We could build an accurate account of him using letters to and from his friends and then characters based on him”

“So many of these are letters,” Tim commented, finishing up another transcript. “It’s not like you’ll run out of material. Seriously, though, how many times were this guy’s friends desperate to tell him about the latest happenings at court?” Jon rolled his eyes in a dramatic gesture that Georgie would have been proud of. 

After the moment responding to Tim’s joke, Sasha spoke up. “I’m a little concerned about how little actual Magnus writing there would be, so I think you should include some of his related works. Maybe find something about them?”

Jon nodded. “We can--uh, we can start with the 1816 materials, if that works best for you, as well.” He couldn’t understand the expression Sasha was giving him. She was upset, she had to be. So her little suggestions were going to be a slow undermine of his authority unless he appeased her early on. This was how the dynamics of academia worked, right? He assured himself that this was the only reason he was on edge.

She agreed and thanked him politely, as if she couldn’t feel the turmoil that Jon suffocated in. The whole afternoon they sorted, repaired and digitized without much issue, but the uneasy feeling never faded. His mind continued to drift to the unfinished manuscript. He was convinced that the missing pages were out there, somewhere, and just needed to be found.

He tried to focus on his work.

* * *

“Okay,” Tim announced at what the wall clock claimed to be around 8 pm. “Jon’s sighed four times in the past two minutes, and he jumps every time you flash the camera. We’re done for the night.” Jon opened his mouth to retaliate, and was cut off by an obnoxious shushing sound. Tim continued, “It is also definitely dark outside, and we have plenty of time to meet and work on this later in the week. We, my merry crew, are going out for some team bonding drinks.” Jon made a noise of protest as Tim swept up his work from his desk and plucked the camera from Sasha’s hands, holding the objects well over their heads until he could replace them where they belonged. “There’s a place near campus, come on.” 

Sasha relented first, accepting her coat from Tim as he plucked it from his chair. She pulled it on, and turned to give Jon the same expectant gaze that Tim was already using. Jon swallowed his complaints and put on his own coat.

The pub was a smaller and quieter place than he expected, remembering the wild parties Tim used to describe in undergrad. It was still more crowded than Jon would have liked. 

Tim insisted on both buying and selecting the first round, which left Jon to sit awkwardly across the table from Sasha. She didn’t say anything, just fidgeted with the paper napkins on the table. The room’s smell of fried food and alcohol was too much. A second went by, then a few, and Jon could no longer take the tension.

“I-- I’m sorry that you got roped into this. I don’t know if you believe me, but I swear I had nothing to do with you being coerced into working on this. I was going to find someone else, when you turned me down.” 

Sasha’s spoke gently. “Jon. That’s alright.” 

Jon was so convinced he'd have to defend himself further that he almost didn’t register her response. When he realized she wasn’t going to yell at him or do something passive aggressive, he tripped over himself with relief. 

“Oh, of course I just mean, well I know it wasn’t fair that--” 

“ _ Jon.” _

Stopping his train of thought was about as easy as stopping a train with his body alone, but she did it instantly with the tone of her voice. 

“Right.” 

“You and I both know that whole project isn’t about what either of us wanted, and that  _ whoever _ ,” she emphasized the word, but they knew exactly what she was talking about, “was responsible for the strong-arming of my supervisor, it was someone with a little more sway than you. I guess this’ll just be one more accomplishment to list on applications.” 

Sasha gave him a pointed look, which simultaneously made him feel small and very, very relieved. He let out a laugh. “I’m just glad to not have to work alone, really,” he replied.

Tim came back with arms full of drinks that looked immediately like they would be too sweet and extremely alcoholic. 

“We have class in the morning,” Jon pointed out, and Tim ignored him completely, shoving a green concoction under his nose. He sniffed it, prompting Tim and Sasha to both laugh a little, and then tasted it. 

Within half the hour he’d finished most of the glass. 

“Can you believe this sleep deprived walking mess was in the top hotties of the class?” Tim asked, recounting what it was like as a much younger student with Jon. “He and his girlfriend both used to turn heads.” 

“Not that either of us warranted or wanted that,” Jon grumbled. “And I’m pretty sure it was just Georgie people looked at.”

“Nonsense. An actual fistfight broke out about who would get to work on  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ with this you, you were as popular as you were completely antisocial.” 

Jon flushed at that, and took a swig of his drink, draining it completely. “I don’t believe a word of that.” 

Sasha bought the next round, which was a milder set of drinks. “At the risk of sounding like one of those grant application questions, why work under Bouchard, and his 19th century ghost stories? I mean, Tim and publishing I get, he likes to nitpick and he’s got the whole charming marketing man thing going on. But you don’t strike me as the occult type, no offence.” 

Jon offered a shrug. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Even though he had cleared things up with Sasha, and was what was quite possibly the opposite of a dark and silent archive, he still felt that chill of being watched, being judged. He took another drink, and the feeling bothered him slightly less. 

“Would you believe me if I said I read ‘Darkness’ as a child and set myself as a one man mission to save the world from a terrible apocalyptic fate?” 

Tim and Sasha looked at each other and then back at him. Sasha replied, “Yeah, actually. You’re dramatic enough. But the fact that you actually stuck with it, now that you know the world isn’t going to end? That’s crazy.”

“His work is interesting, and I can always spend the rest of my life criticising stories about ghosts,” Jon defended. It was bad enough that his practical, first-generation grandmother didn’t understand his degree choices. He wasn’t about to debate it with someone with an equally questioned degree.

“Ah, Jon as a literary critic. That I could see,” she agreed.

“No, I’m still hung up on little doomsayer Jon. Did you go around correcting people on the existence of a loving god?” Tim spread his hands as if to paint the scene. “I had a dream, which was not all a dream… Who even let you read that stuff? How old were you, 13?”

“Eight, actually.” 

“Eight! You should be scarred for life!” Tim cried. 

“I was reading the classics at eight,” Sasha came to Jon’s defense. “If they can hand you the Bible, you can pick up the Iliad, you know? I was really disappointed to find out that I could never go visit Troy, though.” 

“The only Troy eight year olds should be concerned about is the one from High School Musical,” Tim insisted. “This is the real reason the two of you have no definition of fun.”

“High school musical came out in 2006. A bit late for us to enjoy it in the nineties,” Sasha countered. “and I am tons of fun!” 

  
  


Jon couldn’t help but feel fond of his new team. It might have been the alcohol, but the easy camaraderie of Tim and Sasha seemed warm and inviting, and he was once again grateful that he had managed to get ahold of two people who were pleasant enough to counter his own simmering temper. 

A glint shimmered in Tim’s eyes. “Bet. Let’s play a drinking game.” 

“Absolutely not.” Jon slammed his drink on the table with sloshing force. “We still have things to do in the morning.” 

“Oh, come on. We already knew you were no fun, boss.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of adding a Jonah segment to each chapter, to make them longer and more interesting. Would that work well?


	4. Poetry is a Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias introduces a surprise member of the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Martin, and Jon's difficulty with how Martin makes him feel.

“Go through it again,” Jon ordered, not looking up from what he was reading. If he stopped to actually acknowledge the issue, it would probably be the final straw on his towering mass of frustrations. Tim would just have to try harder.

“Oh, come on Jon, you can’t really expect--” Tim wheedled, his placating tone grating on Jon’s mood further. 

Jon glared at him, and that did it. He snapped, “I don’t care what you do Tim, as long as we get more material. It’s hardly my fault that Dr. Robinson misplaced nearly every work involving Magnus in seemingly random parts of the archive. We need something to show for this and it’s been weeks, and now our technology is in a constant state of breaking down, and we have to resort to a  _ tape recorder  _ and  _ polaroid,  _ and I still have to read all the damn things we do find, which is--

“Oh, woah, woah… woah!” Tim raised his hands, palms out, in a motion of surrender. His eyes were wide, and he looked tired. At least as tired as Jon himself.

“--is fine. It’s fine. It’s just… exams are in, and we’ve all had a few days without much sleep. Elias is coming in today, and I’ll ask...I’ll ask him what we should about it.” He waved his hand, as if he could gesture the outburst away. 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Tim responded, and the air around them smoldered like a recently doused fire. “I’ll let you get back to… that.” With an awkward point at the scribbled out page Jon had been trying to arrange, he shuffled back out amongst the shelves.

It had been a difficult time since the first few days on the archival project. Sasha and Tim had quickly discovered that the section where Magnus’s published works  _ should  _ be had been pulled off the shelves by the latest archivist, and suddenly the task of putting together a collection of unpublished writing became a scavenger hunt across the entirety of the archives. Sasha found another letter between Jonah and a friend, this time to German expert on the occult Albrecht Von Closen, where they discussed curses and their implications at length, and Tim found a poem that was likely to be Magnus scrawled in the margins of a treatise by Jonathan Fanshawe, but that was all they had to show for weeks of work. 

On top of that, Elias’s expectations were only growing. He wanted to see more of Jon’s thesis, which he’d fallen behind in writing, and then at the start of this week Jon received a pile of exams to be graded before Friday

The sound of the creaking, haunted-house-worthy hinges of the door to the archives cut through the usual silence. Jon jumped in his chair, jarred out of his thoughts by the noise. Someone's fancy shoes clicked softly on the floor, followed by bigger, softer steps.

“And here’s where I’d like you, Mr. Blackwood,” Elias’s voice sounded, as if Jon’s day could have gotten any worse. “I’ll introduce you to the team.”

* * *

Martin knew he was being watched by one of the regular patrons of the library for weeks before he came up and offered him a job. It had been hard to miss the greasy professor, in a suit nicer than a teaching job should have afforded him, with his piercing gaze. The man left Martin with an unsettled feeling and the distinct fear that he had been found out, and that the library would fire him soon. 

Instead, he found himself shaking his hand, and hearing the words. “Elias Bouchard. I’m head of the Literary Arts department. Could I interest you in working for me?”

Now, he was being firmly led down to the archives of the building, and being introduced to the one of the most exhausted looking graduate students he’d ever seen (and working late nights in the library, he’d seen a few.) 

“Jon! I know it’s been hard on you guys working down here, and since you mentioned having some trouble with the organization of things, I arranged to have another team member brought in. I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Martin Blackwood. He’s worked at this library for…” He turned to Martin expectantly.

“Eight-- eight years.” 

“Ah.” He gave Jon a look that sent a clear message of  _ you see?,  _ and then turned back to Martin. “They are putting together a collection for an exhibit on the letters and unpublished works of Jonah Magnus. You’re likely familiar.” 

“Oh, uh. Probably? Did he write…  _ She Walks In Beauty? _ That sounds right.” 

“Yes, that’s correct. A fan of poetry, are we, Mr. Blackwood? Very good. Anyway, Jon, I’m sure you can get him sorted. I have big expectations for this. Let me know if there’s anything you need.” The tone of his last offer held a degree of insincerity, suggesting Dr. Bouchard would actually like to  _ never  _ hear of their needs. 

“Dr. Bou-  _ Elias,  _ wait.” Jon stood. “I don’t, I don’t  _ need  _ another assistant. We’re doing fine on our own. Look, Blackwood, whoever you are. I’m sorry about all this nonsense but you can go back to where you came from--”

“I’m afraid I’m going to insist, Jon. I’ve already gone through the paperwork.” 

Martin watched, feeling more than a little bewildered as Jon stared back at Dr. Bouchard in muted defiance before averting his gaze with a sigh.

“Fine.” He looked at Martin like he was a particularly unpleasant chore on a long to-do list. Martin felt himself swallow and fidget under the unforgiving eyes. “I’ll find some use for him.” 

“Excellent. I’ll be back in to check on things later in the day.” With that, Dr. Bouchard and his expensive suit were gone from the archives.

Two heads poked around from behind a shelf as soon as the door clicked shut, a magazine-handsome guy in a sporty jacket, and a long-haired woman with glasses.

“Is he gone, boss?” the guy asked, in a stage-whisper. 

“Yes, he’s gone, Tim.” Jon gestured halfheartedly in Martin’s direction, looking less angry and more exhausted by the minute. “This is the newest addition to our team, apparently.” 

“Oh, good. We could use some help around here,” the woman said as she stepped out from the shelf and reached out to shake hands with Martin. “I’m Sasha. I’m sort of an expert on the era of history we’re looking at. Don’t mind Jon, he’s been difficult all week. He’ll come around.” Her hands were soft and delicate. At least his fellow assistants didn’t seem so bad. 

“Martin. Uh, Martin Blackwood. I work for the library,” he responded, offering a polite smile. 

“Nice!” the man, Tim, said, nearly snatching his hand out of Sashas. “I’m Tim, and I’ve been making the transcripts and stuff. It’s not all that bad, you’ll see.” He turned to Jon. “New teammate means another drinks session is in order.” 

Jon just shot him a look. “Let me know when we all suddenly get the time. Martin, for now you can help Tim look for the letters and writings that the esteemed archivist has failed to file properly. You might be more familiar with her nonsensical filing system.” The look he directed at Martin wasn’t as hostile as the one for Tim, but it wasn’t fond, either.

“Oh. Yes, sure! I can do that,” Martin replied, trying to look anywhere but Jon’s face. This might not be the first time he’s had a rude boss, but it wasn’t exactly nice either. 

He found himself dragged into the maze of shelves by Tim.

* * *

Jon was trying valiantly to not see Elias’s introduction of a new person without speaking to him first as an insult. Elias was his supervisor, and had every right to determine how things were run. Still, it felt like he was being told that he and his team weren’t enough, and despite that fact that it was very possible they weren’t, given their lack of progress, Jon didn’t want to hear it. 

Martin was an unfamiliar variable, and that made him a problem, a distraction. It didn’t matter if things in the archive were going poorly as long as they worked in a way Jon was familiar with, a dynamic he knew. He didn’t know anything about Martin. 

He resolved to complain about it to Georgie later and redoubled his efforts to lose himself in the work. 

Still, Martin kept coming up in his mind, like a bad penny. 

Within the first few hours, Tim came back with a predictable nothing, and Martin offered to make them all a batch of tea upstairs. When Sasha insisted that there be no food or drink items near 19th century paper, Jon found himself being dragged into a quiet section of the library, sat down in a semi-comfortable chair, and thrust with a cup of Assam that was nicer than he’d really expected it to be. 

After that particular waste of time, Martin offered to help Tim with a transcript, which would have been fine, good, really, but he’d managed to mess up the formatting so terribly that Tim had to redo it. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Martin was just tall enough that the brush of curls on his head was visible above many of the archives shelves, and the sight of him moving between them, shuffling about mounted pages and well-sealed photographs, kept catching Jon’s eye. He would look up every few minutes just to see the same person he found himself glancing at every time. 

It was beyond irritating. 

He was about to tell Martin off for good when he found him, crouched on the floor of the archives, sorting through an unfiled box labeled “Collection- Poetry.” Of course the man had gone off and forgotten his own work, choosing instead to read things that interested him. 

He cleared his throat loudly and purposefully, fixing Martin with as authoritative a look as he could muster. Martin startled looked up at him, as expected, but instead of flinching back or looking concerned, he smiled, and stood, holding up a gingerly unfolded page of aged paper.

Jon hadn’t quite realized exactly how tall Martin was until they were standing side by side. He had to be at least a head taller, and wider by a considerable amount. He hadn’t been given any reason to feel intimidated until that realization. Martin slouched to make up for the difference without even seeming to notice. 

“I think I’ve found something,” he said, excitedly offering the paper to Jon. He made sure his hands were clean of sweat before taking the page. “Almost all these were by Barnabas Bennett, but this...”

> My Dearest Barnabas, 
> 
> I expect to find you well, and in a position that you might entertain an idea of mine. I tire of England as of late, and certainly England tires of me, with the allegations against my character so populous around society. It is none of their concern, of whom I may take into my bedchambers, but nonetheless they are merciless to know of it. Perhaps that is a sentiment I can understand, but I want no part of it. A dear friend in Germany has suggested his lakeside estate in Switzerland, and has proffered it’s use for some time. My physician and I have made arrangements to travel there for the summer. 
> 
> It is my understanding that you may have your own reasons to tire of London.

The rest of the letter proceeded to invite Barnabas to join him and a few other friends for his lake house stay. It was signed by Jonah Mangus. It took Jon a moment to register that it was probably referring to the Von Closen lakehouse. The one where some of the most famous horror stories were ever written was found. 

“Martin, this is-” he said, forgetting for a moment to be angry. “Uh, this will do.” 

“Hang on,” Martin replied, gently taking the paper from him. “Look at the back.” 

On the back, in a much sloppier pen, was a fragment of a poem, about “My Intellectual Beauty”

> It visits with inconstant glance
> 
> Each human heart and countenance;
> 
> Like hues and harmonies of evening,—
> 
> Like clouds in starlight widely spread,—
> 
> Like memory of music fled,—

Jon wrinkled his nose at it, but Martin held a sort of dreamy look was he read it aloud. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

From behind them, Tim suddenly spoke up, and it occurred to Jon just how close he had moved up against Martin on the instinct to get closer to the paper. He jumped aside as Tim asked, “Do you think they were in love?” 

It wasn’t exactly a secret to historians or those of his time, that Jonah Magnus was interested in other men. Magnus’s biography had called his relationship to them “ _ little less than what he himself describes them, 'passions'”. _ He voiced as much.

“Oh, so, it’s actually possible, then.” Martin’s cheeks coloured like a school child’s. It stirred an agitation within Jon, making his stomach flutter in a way that did not help his opinion of the man. “Thats… that’s cool.”

Jon was about to give a sharp retort when Elias’s voice called from the end of the room, loud enough to carry over the shelves and sound almost like he was right next to him. Jon startled with a small jolt, and straightened his spine as Elias walked towards them, still speaking. 

“When Barnabas Bennett died, his remains were found on the shoreline of the western coast, and cremated by Mordechai Lukas and Jonathan Fanshawe. It is said he didn’t leave behind many bones, but a skull and a calcified heart. That heart, you should know, was found in the office of Jonah Magnus wrapped in a copy of his own poem,  _ Adonias _ , thirty years after Barnabas’s death. It was thought that Magnus took the heart with him wherever he went. It’s safe to say he lacked no affection for Barnabas Bennett.” When he stopped, he was at the end of the aisle of shelves, facing Jon. “Hello, Jon. I’m glad to see that Martin is helping you make progress.”

Jon scowled at this. He didn’t  _ need _ Martin, and the insinuation that they weren’t making progress before, however true it may be, frustrated him. “Yes, well. It wasn’t the worst work.”  _ He’s also been a nuisance and a distraction.  _ If Martin gave a frustrated hum or Tim made a quiet groan at that, he ignored it. “I was just about to have Sasha confirm the date of this letter. You two, see if there’s any more to be found among those, and then shelve them correctly.” 

Elias smiled at that, apparently impressed with Jon’s leadership, and Jon felt himself standing up a little straighter. Then Elias’s hand was on his arm, and he was being led down further into the archives, and Jon struggled to hold onto that piece of pride he felt, struggling even more to focus on what Elias was saying. 

He saw the flash of Martin’s curls over the top of the shelves.

* * *

Tim and Sasha eventually headed home, and Martin realized that he’d be expected to work at the library’s front desk until they closed at midnight that night. For a first day, he was feeling relatively good about working in the archive, and he knew he needed the money. 

The others continued to insist that Jon was a good guy, that he wasn’t usually this mean, that he’d been under a lot of pressure lately and Martin was just caught in the middle of it. Martin wasn’t so sure that Jon didn’t just hate him specifically. 

He was determined to make the best of it, whether that meant being the first one in and the last to leave, or making Jon a cup of tea when he was clearly about to pass out onto the floor without one. He’d made the best of people being rude to him all his life. 

He took note of some of the writings of Barnabas Bennett =--Dr. Bouchard had mentioned  _ Adonias-- _ and when things were slow at the front, he went to see if they had any copies. To his luck, there were. The library had a fairly extensive set, actually.

Between helping people find what they needed, noting who all came in and out through the doors, and checking out books for people who needed them, Martin read as much as he could manage. The words drew him in, intoxicating, and there was just something so…  _ kindred _ about Barnabas Bennett. They didn’t have a lot in common, what with Martin being in the 21st century, and not even close to any sort of socialite, but it felt like they shared something beneath all that. He could tell in the way the poetry described people, described clouds and the rain. It was beautiful, really. He decided he could use some of its influence in his own writing. 

Before he knew it, the day was over, and he was closing up behind the desk, making the decision to check out a few collections of Bennett to take home. It was as he made rounds to ensure that the rest of the staff was alright, and that he wasn’t going to lock anyone in, when he noticed the archive door at the bottom of the stairs, was still giving off light. 

He went down to turn it off, figuring whoever was in there last forgot about it, when he realized that it wasn’t as empty as he thought. 

Slumped up against a shelf, notebooks dropping out of his hand, was his new boss, Jonathan Sims. He was bent over some text on the writings of Jonah Magnus, but whatever he had been reading was apparently not enough to keep him awake through his obvious exhaustion. 

He looked different while asleep. Gone was the wound-up tension that normally radiated from him, like the only thing that was holding him up was his own stress. When that was gone, Jon looked like a painting, peaceful and still. Under all that work and posturing, he realized, was a man. A man that liked stories, apparently. And would occasionally let the mask slip over a cup of tea, or when he was too tired to do anything but fall asleep where he stood.

A tender, fond feeling crept its way into Martin, and he didn’t recognize it until he was flooded with it. 

* * *

“Jonah. Jonah, my dear.” 

Centuries before Martin walked into the archives, Barnabas Bennett walked into the personal library of Albrecht von Closen. 

His friend, or rather, the man who was so much more than that, being mentor, companion, and lover combined, was asleep amongst the shelves. The usual flair with which Jonah carried himself was drained from his form, revealing a man that Barnabas could barely believe was one and the same. He seemed so tender like this, at peace. It was strange and wonderful all at once.

“Oh, Jonah.” 

He didn’t wake the man, even as he pressed close and sighed, slipping Jonah’s glasses from his face and the book from his grasp. He would surely wake with aches and stiffness if left like this. 

Barnabas tried to rouse him, gently, and when this failed opted to lift him and carry him to bed instead. He could sleep in his shirt and shoes for one night without consequence, surely. If the others saw them in the hall, they stifled their laughter. It was a strange sight, to see someone like Jonah unwound. Barnabas laid him down gently.

He found himself feeling utterly in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this one!


	5. On the cold hillside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Last Night of Albrecht von Closen.  
> Sasha meets a mysterious man on the way to work, Jon and Martin find a bookstore, and there's some breaking and entering in the pursuit of knowledge.

## 1821\. 

  
Jonathan’s horse thundered through the rocky passage, but it could not carry him fast enough. The rain battered him enough to be painful, to force him to squint at the landscape over the rim of his glasses, but he could not slow. 

For the first time since the summer of 1816, he arrived at the von Closen lakeside estate. Despite the fact that the trees were greener, the light softer and warmer since his last fated visit, the sight of the place chilled him. It was beautiful there- it always was, but there was no mistaking the sense that something was wrong. He couldn’t see well through the torrent, but the acrid scent of smoke was unmistakable. 

Perhaps he was too late. His horse brought him to the edge of the forest behind the estate, now glowing an obvious orange, impossible to miss, before it stopped at once beneath him. The animal, afraid, would take him no further. 

He left the horse, having no time to attend to it and Albrecht at once, and took off into the woods on foot. The smoke grew heavier and thicker as he approached what he presumed to be the funeral pyre of his dear friend- leaving behind little but ash and bone. 

Instead, he came across a clearing of smouldering ground with the charred shadows of what once had been trees making way for an untouched building. It was old, unfamiliar, and stone. At the front, pale as the ash falling around him, was Albrecht von Closen. He was frail, sunken. It did not appear he had bathed or shaven in days. He wore no coat nor shoes, despite the ongoing rain. At his feet, a torch rolled unlit. 

Jonathan took to his side, slipping into the role of physician as naturally as breath. “Albrecht, you wretched man, what ails you?” he muttered, drawing the man’s face up to inspect it, pressing his hand to his throat for his pulse, to feel the warmth of his skin. He was cold, much too cold out in this rain. With no way of taking the man to a better shelter, he pulled his own coat over him, and pulled him further into the empty tomb. 

He propped his charge up against the stone of the open and empty coffin, it’s lid of wrought iron and coloured glass on the floor beside it. He did not intend to give any thought to who it’s intended resident might be. Instead, he pulled the brandy flask from his side, and offered some to the man on the floor. 

“Drink.” 

His patient obeyed, his movement shuddering and lethargic. That was a good sign. Indeed, for a moment things looked hopeful, as colour returned to Albrecht’s face, and he looked up to speak, in a croaking ramble of mostly German. Jonathan struggled to translate even with his serviceable grasp of the language.

“Oh, my beauty, the fairy,” Albrecht was uttering, under some abject mania. “I shut your wild wild eyes with kisses four.” He began to tell a story, and then another, of princes and warriors all left pale and depraved in the most horrible ways. Of a fairy with a beautiful voice and wild eyes that transfixed him so. Of his dreams of the lakeside, cold and beautiful, where no birds sing. Of how dearly he wished to give into his fairy, and fall forever asleep. Jonathan itched to return to his work, to attend to the man’s crumbling health, but was left transfixed by the words. He failed to notice the book beside Albrecht, which was now pulled up to his chest and pressed there squarely. So fixing were the stories that Albrecht told, Jonathan barely noticed the way his own body moved, even under the strain of his labors. 

When his senses finally returned, he was above the coffin, lid secured half into place, revealing only the face and chest of Albrecht inside, looking for all it mattered to be dead already. Still, Albrecht continued to speak. 

“The book,” he pleaded, looking up at Jonathan with faraway eyes. “The book.” 

Jonathan reached for his face, usure of the man’s condition, and pulled his hand away when his skin stung with ice cold. Something compelled him to fetch the thing, and he opened it at the dying man’s request. 

When he opened the pages, Albrecht let out a cry, and then closed his eyes with a smile. 

“I shall sleep,” he whispered, and before Jonathan could do anything for him, he was gone. 

The pages of the book, left on the open coffin as Jonathan rode away through the bitter rain, were entirely blank.

* * *

Many years later, a tall blonde man stared at Sasha on the train.

It wasn’t the first time she’s ever been stared at. This was London, after all, and no city would be complete without its fair share of creeps. There was something odd about this man, though. He towered over her, despite her own height. He wore an everyday suit, under a 90s windbreaker bright enough to give her a headache. He didn’t leer or gesture lewdly, or blush and blink away when she met his gaze. Just stared, disconcerting and fascinating her. 

It took a moment for her to realize that it wasn’t her that he was staring at, but rather the work she was reading over. She had a collection of polaroids and transcripts she was reviewing from the archives on her way to class. Tall, blonde, and weirdo was reading her notes. 

Well, better that looking at her body, she supposed. It’s not like she was working with anything that wasn’t going to be public access later. She decided to ignore him until her stop. She had a lot to do, as usual, both with her own research, which was slowly but surely coming together, a meeting with Tim for lunch later, and the work she was doing in the archive. No point in getting worked up before she even got her morning coffee.

Only, the guy didn’t stop looking over her shoulder when she moved to get off the train. She stepped through the sliding door, and realized he was still right behind her. Okay, that was pretty creepy, actually. 

Her favorite coffee shop was on the way, and although she was going to be late, she’d rather lose him in a crowded shop than lead a stalker all the way to where she was holding office hours. So she turned, and he followed her inside. Great. 

After forgetting her own coffee order (thank God for baristas that recognize you and remember what you get normally), and trying to disappear into the crowd of the line, she thought she’d made it away from him. She turned to make her way out, and walked directly into the table he was sitting at. 

He looked up at her with a smile that was just slightly crooked. His coffee was in a ceramic mug patterned with some kind of two-tone optical illusion.

“What do you want?” Sasha demanded, her indignation and confusion pushing past the anxiety twisting her stomach, forcing the question to rush out of her mouth with a sharp push. 

“Who, me?” the blonde man replied. “I want to help.” The earnest but entirely _strange_ way that he replied was intriguing to Sasha. Her curiosity won out over her nerves. If he was going to murder her in the back alley, might as well get a few questions in. 

Quietly, she asked, “Help? Withwhat? Who are you?”

“You can call me Michael,” was his answer. The way he said it implied that Michael might not actually be his name, like she was some fairytale trickster who couldn’t be trusted with his real one. “I find books. You’re looking for Magnus stuff. I know where we can get it.” He held out a card. 

Sasha took it, eyeing him suspiciously. It was white with a gold lightning fractal branching across it. 

“Mike’s books,” she read aloud, and pocketed it. “You trade in many 200 year old books?” 

He gave her that warbled smile. “We have ways of finding these things. Tell you what. Give me those photos of that letter from Magnus to Albrecht von Closen, and meet me tonight at Hanwell Cemetery. I’ll give you a book of untouched work by Magnus, 1821.” 

She gave him a once-over. 

“Unless you’d rather I sell it to someone else?” he taunted.

“Fine. I’ll be there.” She slid the photographs over to him. “It better be worth my time.” 

“Oh, it will be,” he said, looking at her name written on the back of one of the photos. “Sasha James.” 

She left the coffee shop before the situation had time to freak her out. She was half an hour late to her office hours.

* * *

Jon found a card shoved unceremoniously over the document he was reading as Sasha arrived at the archives. She dangled it in front of his face.

“A bookstore?” he asked, taking it from her and inspecting it. “Why are you showing this to me?”

“Some blonde guy handed me that and told me he had an unpublished book by Jonah Magnus. Gave a specific year and everything.” Sasha was speaking with an excitement that Jon hadn’t expected from her at 5 in the afternoon. 

“And you believe him?” Jon asked, not in the incredulous way that he might have used on Tim or Martin, but to seek confirmation. He had no choice but to accept Sasha’s judgement on these things. 

“Yeah, actually.” She looked thoughtful. “Look, I can’t give you for a good reason, but I’m going to meet up with him later and find out. I just figured you’d want to know, being team leader and all. I’m not even sure we’re supposed to use outside sources.”

Jon looked around, and then back at her. With the state of this place, it wasn’t like anyone was going to be able to tell. “As long as we can confirm it’s not a forgery, I don’t see why not.” 

“Great. I’ll check it out tonight, then,” She replied, and then went to fetch the polaroid camera. “Tim said he’d be in a little late today, just so you know.” 

* * *

Martin came back from several hours of sorting documents to see Jon staring at his laptop in what looked like anger and disbelief. Some internal debate was raging in his head, that much was obvious. Martin gathered his courage and brought himself to talk to him. There was no way Jon would ever be nice if they never talked. 

“Oh, uh, what did your laptop ever do you?” he joked, although it didn’t come out as smoothly as he would have liked. 

“There’s a shop that I’d love to look up, but apparently it’s the only shop in all of London that has never once been written about, discussed or photographed. All I can seem to find is the address. It’s… not ideal.” His brow knit together and his lip curled- and since when did Martin start finding that cute, anyways? 

Martin hummed thoughtfully. “It’s not too far from here. What if we went to check it out? I could use a break, anyways. You know, I’ve made a decent way through the filing, and I know you’ve made a lot of progress from last week, so I’m sure we’ve got enough time to pop in and out of a shop?” 

Jon looked at him like he just described the sky as green. Right, that was a stupid idea. Martin felt his courage reel in on itself and vanish.

“Fine,” Jon said after a lengthy pause, clicking the laptop shut and causing Martin to jump.“Let me get my coat.” 

It would have felt romantic, going down to a bookstore with his newest crush, if Martin didn’t have the distinct feeling Jon was one minor infraction from exploding. Every time Martin glanced over, Jon’s hands were clenched, or fidgeting, or pulling at the excess length of his hair. His jaw was set, and his eyes flitted around from one thing to the next as they passed through the mostly deserted streets, and now Martin was staring and had to wrench his gaze away. Better to think about something else for a while. 

“So,” Martin started. “Why are we coming out here, anyway? I know you’ve got to like to read, obviously, since you’re getting your degree with literature and all, but are we going in there to buy a book?”

“Something like that,” Jon replied, his voice smoky and deep, but also curt and annoyed. “I’m following up on a lead.” 

That made them sound like partners in a detective movie, but Martin figured he shouldn’t say anything.They walked in silence for a while, before he looked up. “Oh, I think that’s it.”

The sign to Mike’s Books was large and hand painted, but it hung dutifully above a small, bright yellow door. An exhaust pipe whirred quietly next to it, pumping out steam that smelled like ozone. Martin tried the handle and it turned easily in his hand. 

“Welcome!” a warm voice with a charming accent sounded. “I haven’t seen you in before.” A large man--larger than Martin, despite Martin’s round build and decent height--was sitting behind the counter in a worn leather chair. The book on his knee looked like it might have been hand-bound with rough pieces of canvas. The shop was bigger than it looked outside, and decorated like a vintage hotel, but filled floor to ceiling with an unwieldy array of books. A spiral staircase lead up to a loft level, containing even more books. 

“Um, no, I’ve never been.” Martin agreed, nodding, and then he looked to Jon for guidance. He had no idea why exactly they were there. 

“Someone claiming to work with your shop offered my associate the opportunity to buy a very rare find of a book,” Jon said, looking around the cozy sprawl with distaste. “I want to know where he got it.” He didn’t look at the guy behind the counter, instead crouching to look at a small volume on the floor. 

The man just laughed goodnaturedly. “Well, I am known for my uncanny ability to find rare and precious things. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. Mikaele Salesa.” His smile seemed to grow, and Martin distantly wondered if he was being hit on. 

“Oh, well, I’m Martin, and.. And this is Jon.” He gestured at Jon, who was now inspecting a series of old volumes. 

“Wonderful. Well, Martin, if your friend wants to browse our selection, I can tell you how we get our rare and interesting books here. Perhaps over a cup of tea?” 

Martin was not one to reject good English hospitality, and so took him up on his offer, stepping forward with a nod. “You coming, Jon?” 

Jon shook his head. “You can fill me in later, if he’s telling the truth.” He held up one of the books from the series and seemed to sniff it. Okay, weird.

Then Jon turned to meet his eyes with an intense stare, and Martin forgot any judgements he might have ever had on Jon’s behaviour in that look. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring nod. 

Mikaele led him into a back room, and began his story. “When I was a younger man, I was hired to work for a very rich and eccentric man who fancied himself a librarian…” 

* * *

With Martin out from his hair, Jon took a picture of the book he held and texted it to Elias. They had a whole set of books from the Latin epic “Ex Altoria”. The pages, by all rights, should be dust, but judging by the language and the style of the woodcut illustration, it was an honest-to-God version of the original print. He flipped to a page containing a picture of an empty black sky. 

“Can I help you?” A pale man stood at the top of the spiral staircase, staring down at Jon. He had dark hair, pale blue eyes, and an oversized shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a fractal scar. “I’m Mike.”

* * *

Martin and Mikaele were having a lovely time with the tea and talking about Mikaele’s questionably legal sources of rare books when a loud crack and then a yelp came from the shop. Martin hurriedly set down his cup and rushed to see what was going on. 

“Jon?” 

Jon was currently flailing with his back pressed up against the rail of the staircase, with another man’s hand fisted in his shirt, shoving him over the edge. He made another guttural wail as the other man stepped closer to look down at Martin. 

Mikaele looked up and shook his head. “You should have taken the offer of tea, Jon. Please put him down, Mike. He is holding one of the more expensive books.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue, like a disappointed mother.

In one of his hands Jon held an old-looking leather bound book. 

“Look, it’s my store, and he wasn’t being very polite,” Mike shot back, but he did release Jon, who straightened up and staggered away from the edge immediately. Martin noticed with surprise that Mike seemed to be even shorter and more wiry than Jon. 

“I need to know if you are lying about having unpublished work by Jonah Magnus!” Jon insisted, pouting. Martin sucked the air through his teeth and then marched up the stairs in outrage.

“For Christ’s sake, Jon, don’t make it worse!” he hissed, and then he whirled on Mike. “He was a little rude to you, so you were going to kill him?” 

Mike just shrugged, seemingly unaffected by the way Martin was looming over him. “He would have survived.”

Martin opened his mouth with a gasp, but Mikaele appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and interrupted. “Why don’t you all come down, and we’ll straighten this out, hmm? Then we can get these men squared away and out of our shop.” He directed the last bit to Mike, who offered yet another shrug. 

Jon recounted what Sasha had told him, bringing the business card out from his pocket as evidence. 

“Yellow hair, you said? That could be Michael.” Mikaele suggested, thoughtfully tapping his fingers against the table. “The only thing that fits the 1820 description you’re talking about… well let’s just say there’d be no way to get at it through conventional means. That isn’t to say Michael won’t get his hands on it for you, though. Doors seem to open for him more often than not.”Mikaele looked around the shop, as if to make sure no one was listening, and then turned back around. “Look, between you and me, Jonah Mangus is bad news. Call me a superstitious old man, but some of those ghost stories aren’t just stories, you know?”

“You’re a superstitious old man,” Mike said, and snatched the book out of Jon’s hand. “Stop scaring customers.” 

“Hang on, but you just-” Martin started, but then Jon put his hand on Martin’s arm and- oh, Jon’s hands are softer and warmer than he expected. 

“Come on.” Jon said, quietly. “I think that’s all we’re going to get out of these two.” 

And Martin let Jon lead him out by the arm, trying desperately not to read too much into it. 

* * *

Sasha wasn’t being reckless. She had texted Tim the address when she left at 9pm. She’d looked up the cemetery beforehand. She was nervous, sure, but she was also afraid of half the horror games Tim had her play. It was a perfectly reasonable thing to meet an only somewhat unsettling man in a cemetery about a 200 year old book. Right?

Michael was waiting at the gate, holding a crowbar. “There you are,” he said when he saw her. He gave her a look that she didn’t really understand. Then he hoisted himself over the top of the gate, trudging off into the dark. Sasha, with nowhere else to go, took off after him. 

He led her past hundreds of gravestones to the top of a hill. There, at the top, was an old mausoleum. It lorded over the rest of the place, grey and intimidating. Something in what was probably German was carved into the top, and the black iron gates of it were latched together with intricate bars of rusted metal- metal that Michael was in the process of prying apart. Around it was quiet, painfully quiet, and Sasha got the distinct sense that something, some presence, was watching. 

It made a loud and horrible wrenching sound, and were it not a fair distance from the entrance to the cemetery, Sasha would worry about being found and probably arrested. Instead, she just covered her ears and waited. She felt that prickle of fear, of being watched again, and shivered. Ghost stories weren’t her specialty- that was all Jon. Still, she’d already made it this far. No real point in going home now. 

She turned around and gave what she hoped was a pointed look at the empty, staring darkness. 

* * *

Tim was not particularly happy that Sasha decided to go and get murdered on a Thursday night. It was bad enough that he had had to run around abandoned parts of the city for Danny- thank god he finally found a new hobby- now he was giving up a perfectly good evening to save Sasha from her own stalker. For someone who criticized safe and fun things like Tim’s cliff diving habit, she was sure willing to make some stupidly brave decisions in the pursuit of research. 

The text she sent him (she didn’t even see the need to call) was from nearly an hour ago, but he’d only just gotten home to check it. He took his flashlight- one of the big heavy ones they give night guards, and his jacket, and then went right back out into the city to save the life of his best friend. 

When he reached the gate, hopefully not an hour and a half too late, he noticed a scrawny kid trying and failing to vault the fence. No Sasha or strange creepy blonde in sight, though. 

The kid jumped at the gate again, and fell back down with a dissatisfied grunt. Tim realized that it wasn’t a kid at all, but rather a particularly small man who was in the process of cursing and spitting at a cemetery fence. Kinda reminded him of Jon, actually. 

“I don’t think the fence looks very intimidated,” he commented, before he could think better of it. Maybe Sasha was rubbing off on him with the bad decisions. 

The man whipped around to face him, and brought his hand out of his pocket while he did so. A loud crack and sparking flash cut through the air, and Tim leapt back to avoid the active end of the guy’s taser. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” he yelled, backing up further as Mr. Sparky jabbed the thing at him. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Where’s Michael?” the guy demanded. 

Tim eyed the weapon. “Who? Look, I’m just looking for my friend. She said she was going to meet someone out here.”

Sparky lowered the taser. “Michael said he was going to bring someone to the crypt.” 

Tim swallowed and let himself relax, just a little. “Then we must be looking for the same people, right?“ He put his hands up in submission. “Look, let’s just call a truce, and we can look for them together.” 

Sparky put the taser back in his pocket and Tim let out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding in. 

“Alright,” the man said. “Help me over the fence.”

* * *

The inside of the crypt was darker than it really should have been. The little moonlight that there had been seemed to stop at the door, but Sasha could just make out a large stone coffin with an unusual glass lid. 

“What is this?” she asked Michael.

He walked in and cracked a bright pink glowstick, the kind used in emergencies. “The mausoleum of Albrecht von Closen. It was moved here.” He left it at that particularly cryptic fact, and began to prod at the coffin lid. 

“Are we- are we really going to break someone’s coffin?” 

“Well, you wanted the book.” Michael pulled out a knife that was probably about as legal as the grave robbing itself, and began to pry at the glass. With a bone-chilling squeak of metal on glass, he found purchase, and pried open the crack. After that, he seemed to move the lid with ease. 

Sasha’s first thought was that there was no way the body left in the coffin was 200 years old. A man in a vintage waistcoat lay there, his face lineless and peaceful in a way that was less like death and more like sleep. There was no sign of either decay or preservation, and his hair was overgrown, longer than her own, tangled and sprawling with the thatch of his beard. 

In his hands he clutched a book, which Michael wasted no time in snatching from him. The body’s hands fell gently away, without the creaking rigor that Sasha was sure that corpses were supposed to have. 

Then, she found herself holding the book, and Michael swung the coffin lid shut. Burning with curiosity, she opened the cover, and found a letter there, in what was now a very familiar script. Jonah Magnus. 

Michael snapped the book shut in her hands. “Not yet.” And then they were taking off, back through the cemetery. Sasha desperately wanted to read what she was holding, but he was probably right. Best to stop trespassing first. 

She was so preoccupied with thinking of the book she was holding, taken from a dead man who didn’t really seem dead, that she didn’t notice the new man until she had just about tripped over him. 

He was shorter than Michael, probably around her height. His hair was dyed a cheap black, the kind that looked more greenish than it should. He was covered in piercings and tattoos, and Sasha noticed in particular the eyes he had inked on each knuckle of his fist.

In what felt like an exact recorded copy of the way he’d said it to her before, Michael grinned and greeted him. “There you are.” 

The guy eyed the book in Sasha’s hands and flicked open a lighter absentmindedly. “I guess you managed to get my attention. I’m Gerry.” 

* * *

Tim got the distinct sense that Mr. Sparky, who he now knew was named Mike, didn't know where he was going from the fact that they’d been wandering the graves aimlessly for a while. That, or maybe Mike just didn’t care. 

It would have been a pleasant walk, really, if it wasn’t the dead of night on a nice grassy hill full of corpses. Mike had a weird sense of humor and was a bit of an airhead, but in a way that was endearing rather than actually thoughtless. He didn’t answer many questions, but wasn’t afraid to contribute to a conversation. 

“...and that’s how Sasha and I ended up hunting down ghost stories and thinly veiled love letters by some rich guy from ages ago. Really, not the kind of thing I expected to be doing at this point.” 

Mike nodded. “Didn’t think I’d be selling books. I have a Meteorology degree.” 

“Hey, really? I think I can picture that. Weatherman Mike, coming to you live at 8AM. They’d have to put you in those shoes that make you look taller, though.” Tim laughed.

Mike’s bony elbow made acquaintance with his ribs. “Rude.” 

On the horizon, just barely visible by the moon, three tall, long-haired silhouettes were gathered, and talking quietly.

One of them let out a quiet laugh, and Tim immediately recognized her as Sasha. She was doing just fine, or so it seemed. Go figure. 

“I go all this way to rescue her, and there’s not even anything wrong. I was sure that guy was gonna kidnap her, or something.” 

“He won’t. He’s not haunted either.” Mike let out a sigh. “Mikaele and his stupid ghosts. Waste of time.” He kicked at a pebble on the ground.

“Want to go grab a drink?” 

* * *

Gerry Keay was the person who should be holding the book Sasha was holding. Apparently Michael had tracked down the only living relative of Albrecht von Closen, the guy they just stole from in the dead of night. He was a goth grad student in comp sci. 

“My mother adored the scary book shit,” Gery told them, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I hated it. Went into the least literary subject I could.” 

Michael nodded sagely at this, and looked at Sasha as if she should understand what was going on here. 

“Why are you here, exactly?” she asked, keen to shatter the illusion that this all made sense. 

“Oh,” Gerry replied. “I’m here to take care of the body. Weird shit’s supposed to happen when the book is gone, so… Michael here told me to show. I didn’t think he’d actually do it, though.” He flicked his eyes to Michael and back to Sasha. “He tends to lie.” 

Sasha shrugged. “He’s been pretty helpful,” she defended. 

They talked like that, for a bit. Gerry seemed to like making dry, dark jokes, and Michael just seemed to be enjoying the fact that a conversation was happening. It wasn’t all that bad, for a night out with two strange men in a cemetery. 

“So what are you going to do with that?” Gerry asked, eyeing the book. “Now that it’s out, I mean.”

“Give it to my boss to put in an archive, I guess. We’re curating a collection.” She replied. “And pay Michael whatever he wants for it.” 

“I don’t handle the prices,” Michael admitted. He didn’t look at all upset about not being paid. “I find books.” 

Gerry took a deep drag of his cigarette and then tamped it out on a headstone. 

“You guys really don’t know what you’re dealing with, do you? Jonah Magnus was a powerfully fucked up guy. He put that guy in there, you know. Great-grandaddy von Closen was too earnest and curious for his own good, and so Magnus put him in a box.” 

He shook his head and turned to leave. “I know you’re going to keep reassembling his collection. Not like I’m going to have any part in it.” He looked Sasha in the eye for a moment, staring with cold, hard eyes. “But if it were up to me, you’d burn it.” 

And with that, he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! I finally feel like I'm out of the block I was in earlier, and I'm happy with what I'm writing again!


	6. Doth depend on time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of Jonah Magnus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little ghostlike and spooky! Nothing super dramatically scary, but there is death involved.  
> Fair warning.

Jon stood at the head of the table in the archives, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and looking what he hoped was ready for some serious work. 

“So. How much do we have?”

Martin held up his findings from the box of poetry. “Three letters from Jonah Magnus to Barnabas Bennett, all pre-1816. Some snippets of back and forth poems, as well. There’s also the accounts from Barnabas about his stay at the von Closen Lakehouse, 1816.” Jon nodded. It wasn’t much, and Martin could still only sort and retrieve the pieces they were working with, so the Bennett side was moving along slower than any other angle, but it was something. It was enough for now. “That’ll give us a setup of background and opener to the place where it all happened, uh, so to speak.”

Jon turned his gaze to Sasha, and she grinned. “I have what I now believe to be a book written in 1821 by Magnus on the life and experience of Albrecht von Closen. It’s in the right style, entirely in English, and the handwriting and paper are a match. It’s fascinating, really. If anyone asks, it was buried somewhere deep in the archives. It’s not perfect- von Closen wasn’t there for the lakehouse thing, but it gives us a before and after, and there’s a record of what Magnus was working on at the time. He was sending Magnus funds for some sort of occult-based research that only his family would have been looking into. Something about a bet with three other men. I intend to look into it very closely as soon as I can.”

Tim butt in before Jon had the chance to look to him. “That brings us to the letter from Robert Smirke. We have evidence he was pursuing something grand in 1824- I had some work on it and this was definitely written in 1824.” He pulled out a few other aged pages. “Mr. Magma wrote to him at length about immortality, incantations to preserve the soul, that sort of thing. Spooky stuff.” 

Jon shot him a glare at that. “That _spooky stuff_ is the central theme to a great man’s last work. Magnus died in 1824, around the same time as Smirke. It should not need to be stated that he never succeeded in that desperate search for immortality.” 

“Oh,” Tim said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.” 

* * *

_Spring, 1824._

  
  


Jonah Magnus sat at his desk and contemplated reaching out to his last surviving contacts. The candle burning at his desk simmered at the bottom of it’s holder, and he knew then that it would not last. Everything was coming together, and he would be the final piece in play. 

He took out a golden coin to examine on the desk in front of him in the dim light. It was an old gift, from his dear friend and ally Albrecht von Closen, carefully pressed and inscribed with on one side the seal of his lordship, on the other an open eye. Jonah’s success in his endeavors would have been cut short indeed were it not for the contribution of dear Albrecht. The man was so earnest, so eager for the same leagues of knowledge Jonah sought- but he took those things and preserved them in his storerooms, his libraries. His life was the first step Jonah needed to take. 

His poor, sweet Barnabas had followed suit not a year later. It was the one event not foreseen in his contemplations- Barnabas was meant to be above this, something sweet and to the side of his life’s project. Barnabas was too carefree to be bothered with Jonah’s work. He worked with love, and life, and the beauty within the natural. Jonah worked beyond that, indulging in Barnabas as one indulges in music or wine. A distraction at worst, a luxury at best. In the end, he resulted as an experiment, tragic but altogether useful. Jonah still had no intentions of forgiving his death, nor Mordechai Lukas. It was low, a particular fiendish low, to gain advantage this way in their contest. He placed a velvet bag on the wooden surface next to the coin. It’s contents rattled with a hollow clack. Bennett was dead. He would not be forever.

Jonah prepared his final words to men who, at one point, probably loved him. No words would reach Mordechai Lukas now, not with how things had turned out, but Jonah was a man who by all rights could outlive God to have the last word, and in this he would endeavor to give Lukas his final thoughts, regardless of how his words would fall upon deaf ears. Mordecai could sulk in the arctic for as long as he pleased. 

Jonathan, too, would not speak to him, but Jonah suspected his letters were being read and considered. He would not need a reply, not to this or any letter sent since the first casualty of their project, and Jonathan knew that. It did not matter how traitorous or evil Jonathan saw him- Jonah would finish what he was set out to do, and Jonathan had little choice in holding to his terms. The good doctor had made his choice, and now Jonah was going to outdo him one final time.

With his seal pressed into the final letter, a secret note to Robert Smirke, Jonah took out a leather tome, its black binding inlaid with strange symbols of gold. It was blank. 

It was not with his pen that he put the words into the book, but his final manuscript appeared as part of the strange ritual. Unlike his earlier test subject, he felt no ill effects, and though the air grew cold and the dying remnant of his candle began to burn ever brighter, the world did not react to the strange forces he called upon. The magic smelled not of the sulfurous pits of hell or honey sweet call of heaven, but something older, something worse and better, a deep, natural smell of death and the bitter ice of what existed beyond it.

Jonah Magnus, creator of many a beloved lyric among good society, wrote stories about the dead. This would not be any different.

The words began to appear upon the page and became the last manuscript, the masterpiece of Jonah Magnus- _The Avatar_. His hands did not shake as he held it, and Magnus did not read the words scratching themselves into the paper in ink the deep red of blood, because he already understood every line. To read the book, in essence, would be to read him. 

  
  


> You see, my friend, if friend is still an appropriate title- there is little more to a story than a small recording of one’s soul. Albrecht was able to provide me with ample understanding as to a soul, its general makeup, how one sees it removed. It is as a concept almost romantic- I am sure some of our compatriots might have once seen it that way. My stories will outlive all of us, Robert, and when they do, I will be alive with them. To fill some other person with these memories, this sense of thinking, and indeed, my essence along with it- in more than a metaphor, I will live through them.

Somewhere, across England, perhaps across Europe, Robert Smirke was having a terrible dream. 

Jonah’s eyes snapped open, and something invisible but present in the suffocating terror that it imposed on it’s observer pulled from his lips. His body was shaking, now, not with fear but with something that shook the desk and the bookshelves, and rumbled beneath the whole house. All of noble society in London, those who’d ever read a poem released, or found themselves entertained at a social club gathering, were struck, as if in a spell.

Somewhere, on the other side of the earth, a beast in the arctic turned its head to the sky and screamed. 

Somewhere, tucked away in a townhouse in a dark corner of London, Doctor Jonathan Fanshawe dropped a bottle of wine and collapsed. 

* * *

_About 200 years later._

Jon stood by himself in the archives after dark. The single yellow desk lamp offered little help in seeing his way around, but it was enough. By now his eyes had long since adjusted. 

He dimly remembered an empty promise to Martin about going home before dark. Well, too late now. What the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He put away the materials he had out earlier, trying to maintain some semblance of order, or at least better than the low bar of organization that the school’s archivist offered. It wouldn't take much, all things considered. Jon reached out to turn out the final light, but a sudden urge him gave him pause.

Jon had experienced a lot of feelings in his life that weren’t easy to rationalize or explain. Georgie would call him ‘nervous, neurotic bordering paranoid with a healthy dose of intrusive thoughts and impulsive behavior’ and while he would loathe to admit it out loud, that was fairly accurate. This, however, was not that.

The prickle of fear itched at the base of his skull, the one that would pass over him every so often since his first day working in the archive. With it, a visceral urge, the kind of mindless and desperate need that comes when faced with a bear that tells your body to run came upon him. He could hear his blood rush in his ears, and the thud of his heartbeat shook him with a heavy, impatient bass. He could swear he heard someone whisper something, but there was no way to know what it was.

Before he could stop his head from spinning he found himself wandering to a back corner of the room that he had never before needed to seek out. The rest of the archives were tied neatly into bundles of newspaper and loose leaf pages, or otherwise spread out amongst row after row of shelf-sized cardboard boxes, but in this part of the room there were old books, shelved neatly and hidden away. This far from any light source, Jon was surprised he was able to tell at all.

One book in particular called to him. It was dark, probably black, and stood out amongst the others by its intact colour and pages. Jon reached for it with shaking hands, knowing at once that this is what he was looking for, and also that it was what frightened him.

There was no title on the front, just gold leaf fillings of swirling etches into the leather. Jon traced a finger along them, feeling the way soft and rough gave way to hard and smooth. The inside page had a handwritten title, one word in confident, capitalized script. 

_Magnus._

* * *

_Magnus: the Avatar._

A man stood in a haunt of his own making, lit only by a dying light. Magnus, in all his years of madness and sanity, did not mourn the dead. He hadn’t time, not when he was to wrestle with the powers of God and the universe themselves. Here he sat, in the dark of his office with the evidence of the blood on his hands and the men who had perhaps at this point turned away from him. 

He set to his task.

“You of the unbounded Universe, 

Whom I have sought in darkness and light!

You, who do compass earth about and dwell

In subtler essence, you to whom the halls

Of castles inaccessible are haunts,

And ice’s and ocean’s waves familiar things-

I call upon you by the written charm

Which gives me power upon you. Rise!”

They come not yet, but they will. Magnus knew this as a truth as fundamental as his own knowledge and skill. He called to the undying, first spirit of dreams, and bound it to himself with his tyrannus word. 

The spirit came before him, familiar earnest eyes in a ghastly face, still dreaming of things far beyond. Magnus once more did not have time for fondness or regret, and only looked upon the apparition to ensure that his spell had taken it’s hold. With the first of five within his grasp, he lowered his gaze and called upon the void once again. 

The second came to him, and tempted Magnus to break. This, too, had familiar eyes, cold and beautiful in shades of familiar, endearing grey. It called to him, softly, with easy smiles and indulgent words. Magnus would reach for them were he a younger man, but he had lost that part of himself long ago. The spirit of beauty shone over him and Magnus took it under his power, ignoring the cry of despair it produced. Moving past it took more strength than he had anticipated, but it was no matter. No matter at all.

Then he called upon the spirit of loss. Unlike the others, this one howled in its path, tore at the walls in a ruinous fury. The eyes of a monster glared into Magnus and he felt the bite of cold cover his skin. Some part of himself that he thought long dead wrenched into being, aching with longing for something he didn’t quite understand. The spirit thrashed and groaned as his writings bound it to him, and he brought it to silence with a wave. The ritual was nearing completion, and he would only have so much more time.

The fourth, the spirit of reason did not call to him or curse at him, only watched in sullen silence as he worked. It’s cold eyes picked him apart and said nothing, did nothing but flash with alarm as he put it in its place.

The final two were taken at once, with words of poison honey, dripping from a page in vibrant arsenic. Magnus took himself among the spirits of power, and in his final move made his request.

He did not ask then of sovereignty or power over earthly things, nor elements or subject or wealth. 

He asked only for freedom from oblivion, and resurrection from its grasp.

* * *

_Somewhere, as Jon stands in the archive._

Gerard Keay and Michael stood on the balcony of an old, run-down flat. Gerry spun a cigarette between his fingers, forgetting to light it but clinging to it as an anchor to the world of normal things. Michael arched his back over the rail, letting his long hair flow toward the floors below. 

“That’s not exactly safe,” Gerry told him without any real urgency. 

Michael just laughed. “What is safe?”

“You’ve spent too much time around Mike.” 

“Yes.”

Gerry picked at the black nail polish on his thumb. “Look, I have an assignment due in a few hours. Did you bring it?”

Michael stood up from the railing and drew out a large black book with gold leaf. “No.”

Gerry snatched it and opened to the front cover. “ _The Avatar_. What’s this, then?” 

“The first one.” He was being cryptic as usual, but it probably wasn’t his intention. He looked pleased with the book, and so Gerry took it. This would have been easier if they’d sent Mike. 

Michael stared back at the tattoo on Gerry’s wrist, as unblinking as its inky gaze, and kept speaking. “It’s a story about a man who is so broken over those he’s lost, he goes to four spirits to get it back. He looks for eternal life for the both of them. In this one, he fails, and kills himself for his failure. In the true edition it’s Magnus. And we both know what happens to him.”

“If only he followed through with the first version.” Gerry shrugged and flipped through the pages. “Looks close enough.” He tossed it into a wire waste paper basket on the floor of the balcony. Newspaper had been shoved into the bottom. “Will it work? When I burn it?”

“Oh. Likely not. It’s the wrong copy.”

“And here I was hoping I was done with my mom’s creepy shit.” Gerry pried open the cheesy coffin lighter anyways. He flicked at the flint. 

“Why do it at all? Are you going to save the world, Gerard Keay?” Michael asked, and despite his amusement, Gerry didn’t think it was a joke. 

He brought the flame to the book, and watched the paper catch around it. The flames reflected back from the gold on the book, engulfing the warped reflection of his face in the metal.

“No. I’m going to kill Jonah Magnus.”

* * *

_1824._

  
His masterpiece was almost complete. The walls to his office began to cave in under a non-existent storm. The candle on his desk sputtered with its last grips on life, clutching tight to the time it had left. Books were strewn across the room from every shelf, his desk the only item of furnishing in the room that managed to survive. 

Jonah did not seem to notice. In his hand his manuscript, based on an epic he had already once written, continued to write itself into the third act. He removed one hand from its spine to reach across his desk and pour himself a glass of wine. He poured a second glass and set it across the table, for company who was actually worlds away. 

“I’m calling on that favor now, Smirke.” He spoke to himself in low tones. When he received no response from the crumbling room, he took a deep sip of his wine. 

“Any minute now, victory should be mine. I have become the greatest writer this country has known, and with that I have preserved myself and my soul in my masterpiece. We will be the fifth and sixth, Smirke, and then we will have cheated death, using my words alone. I will be right. And I will see them again.” 

He sat back against his chair and finished the wine. 

As the tome in his hands turned to the final page, Jonah closed his eyes.

* * *

Sometime later, early in the morning, Jonathan Sims blinked awake in the archives. 

Unlike most naps of this nature, he did not feel particularly still, but every movement felt as if all the energy drained from his body. Everything else in the world just felt slightly off. All the lights in the archives were now on. 

A book sat closed in his lap. _The Avatar._ He quickly stood, tucking it under his arm. This would be exactly what he needed as his centerpiece for Elias. He would bring it to him as soon as Elias had time. 

Jon pulled his phone out of his pocket, to discover that he had been in the archives overnight. A stack of missed calls glared up at him in red from his notifications. 5 calls and 15 texts from Georgie. He winced. 

He could call her after his first class, he decided, looking again at the time. He did his best to make his shirt look less wrinkled, carefully set the book aside, and took off for class.

In the hall, he passes a strange figure, who was familiar enough to make him want to cry out. The man, who stood in some sort of period clothing, looked at him with wide, curious brown eyes. Something in him wanted to run to that man and embrace him, as an old lost friend. He stared at the man without thinking, or even really looking where he was going, and ran headfirst into a door frame. 

After blinking the pain out of his eyes and stumbling back, he turned to look at the man again. Hurrying away without having noticed him, the man turned briefly in his direction, and Jon realized it wasn’t a man at all.

Just Sasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this chapter! I'm gonna try and slip in more Gerry and the Mikes,  
> they seem rather popular.  
> Feel free to comment, it helps me figure out where to go next!


	7. His victim, the partner of his guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melanie comes over for the holiday, and they go out to hunt a Vampyre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a gory or particularly scary chapter, but do expect typical-vampire topics.

Midterms made way to finals, which gave way to the dreaded winter holiday. For most people, the Christmas and Hanukkah season was a well-deserved break, where you went to see lovers or family members or something of the sort. Time to go home or go abroad, like Elias, who was heading north for a while with someone Jon presumed to be a spouse. Tim was going camping with his brother, Sasha had a friendly gathering in Paris, and even Martin was going to stay in a motel in Devon, to be near his mum. Friends. Lovers. Family.

None of these applied to Jon. He had no social life to speak of, and his family was dead. No, he would spend the holiday delving into as many books and peer-reviewed articles as Georgie would let him and trying to avoid the constant stream of insufferable store-bought cheer.

For some reason, this year even the usual remedy of losing himself in rare find books and Wikipedia searches wasn’t working as it should. Only seven or so hours into his official time off, not even enough time to finish reading  _ The Contortionist's Handbook _ , he found himself so restless that he resorted to pacing aimlessly around the flat. He wanted something, was itching for it, but couldn’t for the life of him understand what it could be. 

_ Come on, Jon,  _ Martin probably would have said when he was like this.  _ I don’t think they pay us to wear holes in the floor.  _ Then he’d stop him mid-circle and have him break down what was bothering him. Would probably even offer a cup of tea.  _ You know, a proper English solution. I’ll go put some on upstairs.  _ And then Jon would-- 

Tea. Jon usually had a cup of tea this time of day. That must be what he’s missing. This was just a reaction to the break in his routine, maybe a little caffeine withdrawal. He cut off his pacing to shuffle into the small kitchen. Georgie raised an eyebrow as he brushed past her into the kitchen. She had her laptop out on the counter and was snacking mindlessly on an array of chopped fruit.

Jon put the kettle on and went rummaging for a mug. It occurred to him that this wasn’t something he normally  _ did  _ at home, having almost always been out all day, and stopping at cafes being his primary method of getting drinks for himself. He wasn’t even sure where their tea  _ was.  _

“Since when do you make tea?” she asked, around a mouthful of strawberry. “It’s at the top left, by the way.”

“Huh? Oh,” Jon responded, not quite focusing on what she was saying. “Martin makes tea for everyone at this time, and I guess I’m just used to it now.” He pulled out a mug, triumphant in his search. “He has a mug just like this one, actually, but in blue. He brought it from home himself because he thought the ones in the library could be more cheerful.” Jon let himself scoff at that. 

“Oh?” Georgie asked in a playful tone Jon didn’t quite recognize. “Who’s Martin?” Jon decided he didn’t like this weirdness from her. 

“Martin is one of the people working for me on the Magnus project. He’s not a student, at least not that I know of. Elias hired him on from the library, and his shift there usually starts right after we wrap up in the archive. I imagine he’s a bit older than me.” 

“Uh-huh,” Georgie affirmed, chewing a bit of tangerine. “You’ve never mentioned who you’re working with.” 

“Oh, well. Just him and Tim and Sasha.” Jon shoved a teabag into the mug. “Martin’s too easily distracted. Keeps getting lost in our archives of Bennett poetry, which is only somewhat connected to what we need.” He grimaced at the word  _ poetry.  _ “The other day he was telling me about the elegy for the death of Albrecht von Closen, which I did some research on afterwards, and it’s surprisingly interesting, but really not on topic for the project on hand. I wish he’d  _ focus. _ ” 

As he spoke he absentmindedly poured Georgie’s F&N sweetened coffee creamer into the cup. That would have to be close enough, as they were out of milk. 

He stirred it around as best he could, and took a sip. Immediately, he began to pull a face, and he tried to hide his grimace behind an awkward smile. This tea was awful. It was watery thin, and too sweet and not creamy enough all at once. He really needed to ask Martin how he did it right. Jon considered pulling out his phone and calling to solve this right away, when he realized. Martin never gave him his number. Somehow, that fact managed to rile him up further, multiplying his frustration with this godforsaken tea, and with Martin for always being there except for right now, when he needed him. 

He didn’t realize he was glaring into the mug until Georgie cleared her throat. “Why do you look like you’re about to commit brutal murder?” 

Jon sighed. “It’s not important.”

Georgie pushed over the plate of fruit. “Right. Here, help me eat this.” 

Jon eyed the mango slices with something nearing suspicion before giving in and popping one in his mouth. With her ploy to occupy Jon’s ability to speak successful, Georgie leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. 

“Melanie’s coming to visit for a few days.” 

Jon sputtered and nearly choked on the food in his mouth. He couldn’t speak quite yet, so he gave her an extremely pointed wide-eyed look. 

“Look, I know, you and her aren’t on the best of terms. It’s the ex and the missus, yadda yadda. You two see what you don’t like about yourselves in each other.” She waved her hand dismissively. “ _ Anyways,  _ it’s Christmas, she’s my  _ girlfriend,  _ and she’s been abroad studying Asian ghost myths for  _ six months.”  _ She gave Jon a look that told him she meant business. “And now she’s going to come by for a lovely visit, and you can be civil about it.” 

Jon swallowed, slower and thicker than he would have liked. “Georgie, she  _ hates  _ me. And half of what she ‘studies’ is an affront to my career.” 

“I guess you’ll just have to manage, then.” Georgie held her serious face for a beat, and then her expression softened. “Look, I’ll do whatever I can to smooth things over with her, so long as you agree to  _ try.  _ I just want the two people I love to get along. Okay?”

Jon relented. “Right. Okay, I can try.”

“Thanks.” 

* * *

Melanie came in early the next day, more scarf than woman, and looking much less professional than Jon was used to seeing her. Her usually carefully done hair and makeup was now tousled and smudged, and she wore a crumpled punk band t-shirt two sizes too large. She looked more like someone who ought to be a patron of Jon’s band, rather than a rival colleague. She tossed her backpack at the couch next to Jon.

“Hey, hun. Jon.” Melanie stood on her toes to wrap her arms around Georgie and Jon awkwardly fiddled with the seam of his jacket. “How’re things?”

Jon gave a noise that feasibly could have been, “good” just as Georgie replied with “So much better now that you’re here.” 

Jon promised himself he'd use that to tease her later. “You look tired,” he commented, without thinking. Immediately he regretted it. Georgie was going to tear him a new one for being rude right off the bat.

Melanie just gave a loud, huffing sigh. “Yeah, I am. You would be too, after the flight I’ve had. Coffee?” she asked, looking to Georgie. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

And then they were gone, wandering out of his field of vision and into the kitchen. Jon congratulated himself silently. That wasn’t so bad.

When they returned, an extra mug in hand for Jon, Melanie began to tell them about her travels and writing. 

“So there are  _ so _ many supposed haunted and cursed locations in east Asia, so I got to see some of the coolest filming locations.” She pulled out her phone to show them pictures. “There’s me on the hospital set where they filmed The Eye. That’s a deeply haunted forest in South China. That’s me and an expert on Taiwanese urban legends.” She panned through the whole album. In photos and videos, Melanie managed to look like an expert. Her face was always at the perfect angle for the camera, she was decisive and well maintained. Everything from her posture to her home-bleached hair told the audience she knew what she was on about. It’s what made her ghost stories sound so convincing. Of course, Jon was an expert on stories. He knew that none of them were true. 

“There’s somewhere I want to check out in the area, if you’re up for it,” she offered Georgie, and then pulled up an article on her phone. “Did you know that London has vampires?”

Jon let out a puff of air that was  _ not a scoff, thank you Georgie.  _ Vampires, really? He had done the analysis on  _ Dracula, Carmilla, The Vampyre,  _ even  _ The Giaour.  _ Vampires were the reaction of various cultures to disease, sexuality, and guilt regarding the dead. They were cheesy and dramatic at best, and under no circumstances expected to be real.

Jon saw the fire that lit behind her eyes, the one that came up every time someone got in her way. “I’m serious! I’ve done extensive work, Jon, and I swear that there’s a house in London that’s still owned by the Fanshawe estate- you know who that is- and it’s got multiple accounts over the past two centuries of a mysterious man that drinks blood! That’s a vampire, and I am going to get it on film.” She stuck her chin out and planted her feet.

Jon could not help but reply dryly, “I’m sure. I imagine he also sparkles?”

Georgie stared at him over her mug. Right, he was supposed to play nice. He was clearly doing a phenomenal job. He opened his mouth to try again. “I-”

Melanie, it seemed, was not willing to wait. Her darkened eyes glared at him from across the room. “Would it kill you to take me seriously for once? Or do you only listen to crusty old guys covered in dust? How  _ is  _ Elias, by the way? Did he finally upgrade your program out of the seventies?”

That hurt. Hackles raised, Jon forgot everything nice and apologetic he’d come up with and moved on to defending himself. “I-- well, at least we’re a respected academic authority--”

“Which is exactly why you’re operating out of a basement now, right? Or-”

“Just because we didn’t sell out for a screening deal-” 

The back and forth went on a ways, until Jon was standing on the balls of his feet to argue from a slightly greater height, and Melanie had raised her hands from being clenched at her sides to waving wildly about in his face. It wasn’t until he completely raised his voice and Melanie started half-growling out every reply that Georgie’s voice cut through the heated air.

“Enough!” 

The worst of it was that even as she raised her voice to be heard over Jon, Georgie didn’t sound angry with them. Just tired, and a little sad. Melanie turned to look apologetic at her girlfriend, and Jon hesitantly followed suit. Georgie didn’t look back at either of them.

“Jon, you said you’d try.” was all she said to him, and then grabbed for Melanie’s wrist. “Come on, babe. I know you’re probably really tired, but you are not really helping right now. Let’s go for a nap and all return when you two are ready to try that again.” 

Jon bit his lip and shuffled back towards the hall to his room. “Right. Georgie, I- I’m sorry.” 

“Just. Go, for a bit, okay?” she replied.

He closed the door behind him with a click. Civility had lasted all of five minutes. He needed to make this up to her somehow.

This was going to be a horrible holiday break.

* * *

Later that evening, Jon avoided Melanie to the best of his ability, sticking to his books and his horrible tea. His current frustration, getting a book off of the top of their living room shared bookshelf, was more important than his frustration with her, and he was going to get the damn thing down if it killed him. He braced himself on the second to bottom shelf and prepared to hoist himself up. 

“What are you doing?” Melanie asked from behind him. Her voice was only momentarily accusatory.

“Getting this-” he grunted with effort as he tried to pull himself up, “-damn book on mushroom ecology.” 

“...right. Here, hold on a second.” She padded out of the room and returned with Georgie. “You lift me up and I’ll grab the book so Jon doesn't break his neck.” 

Jon watched with simmering frustration and surfacing bubbles of awe as Georgie effortlessly lifted up her girlfriend and marched with her over to the bookcase. Jon found himself staring, a little envious, as the book was shoved into his hands.

“At work, I always have Martin around to help. He’s pretty big.” 

“Uh-huh,” Georgie replied, clearly not really listening. “It’s not safe to climb that, you know.”

Melanie nodded next to her. “Don’t get yourself killed.”

Jon realized that Melanie was helping him out to be friendly. “Right. Uh, I’m sorry about earlier, Melanie. Thank you.” He held up  _ Mushrooms of Southern England. _ “For this.” 

“Sure,” Melanie responded, looking unimpressed. 

“If I can make it up to you, I could…” Jon wracked his brain for something that would be useful to Melanie that he could offer. “I could help you look into your vampire house?”

“I thought you called it all bullshit,” Melanie replied, eyes narrowing. 

She did have a point. He really did say that, among other things. “Yes, well. I’m willing to suspend my disbelief. Or, maybe you’ll convince me. Just, I’ll give it a shot.”

Melanie’s eyebrows raised. She looked more surprised than pleased, but Jon chose to take it as a win. “Sure, okay.”

Georgie gave him one of her sunniest grins. “Have fun vampire slaying!” 

* * *

Melanie drove him out into the night, to a street right in the middle of the shopping part of Soho. It was maybe five minute from Piccadilly Circus. Jon couldn’t believe it. 

“You’re telling me that a vampire lives  _ here,”  _ he asked, eyeing the motorcycle parked out front and the eco-friendly clothing shop across the way. The outsides of the buildings had the partially-matinatined look of the area, half modern brick and glass, half old fashioned parpets and doorways. He hoisted up the night-filming camera she insisted on.

“Look, it’s been 200 years! People used to live here. Some still do.” She looked back at her phone, and then the building they’d parked in front of. “This is it. Get some good dramatic shots of the outside.”

Jon, despite not knowing a thing about photography, tried his best. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to do it the way she wanted, she took the device from him and threw a little kit at him. Lockpicks. 

“Go on. Georgie told me you know how.” 

Jon did in fact know how to pick locks. It was something he briefly taught himself to do when he was feeling dangerous as a first year. It made him feel rather silly now, but, he was trying to make things up to Melanie. He set to work.

The lock was old and opened without much effort. The door swung open with a resounding creak. Melanie grinned and got some photographs of the inside. It was dark, almost too dark for the sign-lit streets of Soho. 

“Are you sure about this?” asked Jon, too little, too late. 

Melanie nodded. “Absolutely.” They made their way inside. 

It felt like being in a museum after dark. The hallway led into a parlor where every piece of furniture looked like it predated Queen Victoria. The china looked like the kind that friends of Jon’s grandmother used, or, more accurately, kept neatly stacked in an old oak cabinet. The fire there was no longer burning, but the embers still glowed ever-so-faintly, tiny red eyes staring out at him. The floral patterns on the armchairs were so faded they were less a bouquet and more plume of fog. It was all funtionally neat, well-kept, and well-used. Didn’t Melanie tell him this place hadn’t been sold for 200 years?

With a wave, Melanie motioned him towards a downward staircase between the dining room and the parlor. “Creepy stuff’s gotta be in the basement, right? Let’s film down there.”

Jon looked at the cobwebs lining the corners of most of the steps, and down into the darkness below. It seemed much more ominous than the rest of the house. He considered how much he wanted to make things up to her. “I… think I’ll keep a look out up here, if you don’t mind.” 

She just shrugged, like she was expecting that. “Suit yourself. I’m catching myself a vampire.” She tip-toed down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as possible in combat boots while on vintage wooden floors. 

Jon took the moment to survey the room. At the edge of the parlor, facing him, was a bookshelf. To his surprise, many of the texts were modern, medical textbooks. The most recent read ‘8th Edition, 2014’ on its spine. From there they traced backwards, into 2002, 1993, 1985, 1976, then further, until finally the oldest ones called from the late 1800s. At the very bottom was a book that stood out, and Jon, without thinking, pulled it from its shelf.

_ Thérèse the Philosopher. _

Curious, Jon opened the cover to discover blatant erotica, translated from French. The hand-written note scrawled on the inside cover read:

> “Since you seemed to so enjoy Voltaire. You servant, B.”

* * *

Melanie wasn’t afraid of spiders, or vampires, or ghosts. That would defeat her job. She definitely never felt a chill run down her spine as she walked into a dark basement that probably had a vampire in it. Especially not now. 

The basement was a fairly normal, albeit dark, kitchen. A well-cleaned stone counter stretched across the center of the room, a wood burning cooking stove stood next to an older, dustier hearth on the rightmost wall, the other walls had shelves and cupboards, and a refrigerator that might have been from the 1920s. There were decanters of wine and other spirits, the makings of tea, and what could be jars of pickled vegetables and spices in view, but no modern foods to speak of.

The thing that really struck Melanie about the kitchen, however, was the smell.

Every single kitchen Melanie had been into smelled of food, or else of soft earthy rot. At home, she remembered, it often smelled of oranges, Georgie’s smelled like chai. The greasy punk she dated years ago had a kitchen that smelled faintly of sour milk. A little gross, maybe, but reasonable. Normal.

This room smelled of antiseptic. The old, harsh ammonia kind that didn’t try to charm you with an overlay of lemon or lavender. Underneath it was the coppery smell of something cold and metallic, singed with charcoal and dust. Like a hospital had an electrical fire. It was unnatural. 

Melanie felt the dark of the room and that scent pressing in on her, and every breath began to feel slightly more choked.

When the well-dressed man appeared on the screen of her night-filming camera, she did not scream. Startled, maybe, but there was definitely no screaming. The hand that wasn’t holding her camera went for her knife, and yes, the wooden stake tucked away with it. Jon would have mocked her for that, if he knew.

She stood as still as possible, noting that the room was still pitch black, and hoping he hadn’t seen her. He sat in a wooden chair near the hearth, and seemed to gaze directly past her.

He cleared his throat, and she flinched. Her fingers clenched around the handle of her switchblade. 

“Hello,” a quiet, serious voice rumbled out of the man, and Melanie lunged forward, drawing the knife. She held it out between the two of them as a warning. The camera dropped to the floor. “Oh.” He looked at the knife with shock, and then back up at her.

“I’m afraid that won’t work, Melanie. You are…” He grimaced, “not the first to try. But by all means, if it helps you feel safe.” 

Her eyes narrowed, although the knife in her hand began to shake. “How do you know who I am?” She asked in a surprisingly professional and steady manner. 

His expression broke into something softer, just for a moment. “That was likely rude. I recognize you from your work on the Youtube. You had a program, involving curses.” He gestured upstairs. “I had a computer installed in my study.” He rose from his seat and greeted her with a stiff, shallow bow. “Jonathan, at your service.” He spoke like an actor out of a period film.

This had to be some kind of elaborate prank on Melanie, right? A vampire named Jonathan. Who apparently watched ghost hunting shows on Youtube.  _ Right.  _

He was staring expectantly at her, waiting for her to say something. She realized then that it was the dead of night and she was standing in this stranger’s house, which she had Jon break into. She opened her mouth to make some form of excuse or apology, and instead what came out was, “Are you really a vampire?”

Jonathan just sighed and turned to the hearth. He pulled out a box of matches and used it to light a few candles. His face looked exhausted and gaunt in the light, but still somehow younger than Melanie, less an old man and more like a drug addict at 21. He had on an ancient waistcoat that was covered in neat but not particularly tasteful patches. “I wrote the book, you know. ‘The Vampyre.’ Based the main character on a dear friend of mine. Well, he was a friend, at the time. He has since reduced our lot to monsters.” He looked at his hands, which were not clawed or wicked, just delicate and precise. “But, yes, I suppose I am.”

Melanie did not particularly enjoy the cryptic act. “What does that even mean? Some friend of yours cursed you or something?”

He was not cryptic about it this time, instead drumming his deft fingers on the counter and looking directly at her. “It means, centuries before the event of your birth, a most difficult man put me up to a bet. Our circle of companions each wrote a story on everlasting life, and were put to the test to achieve it. They died off one by one, looking for that answer.” His voice choked up, as he continued. “I lost everything and everyone in my life of value on that gamble, to obtain the gruesome secret of immortality, only to be trapped in it forever.” 

“And the secret is to drink other people’s blood.” 

He shook his head. “No. I infuse my blood with that of the youth.” 

“But you kill people to do it.” 

Jonathan seemed to stiffen, at that. “...Yes. I have. With the advent of modern medicine, I have better options.” 

Melanie was not as reassured by this as she should have been. She did, however, find herself believing him, about all of it. He said he was a vampire, that he had killed people before, and then he maybe didn’t have to anymore. As wild as that was, something told Melanie that it was the truth. “Right. Cool.”

“Miss King, I have no intention of harming another human being for my personal gain ever again. I did not become a physician to inflict pain. I would have been quite thankful for local anesthetics, back then, had they existed.” 

“Why keep doing it, then? The- the blood infusion thing.”

He went silent, for a moment. “I have no other option. The last attempt to abstain from it resulted in a strange attack. I awoke with no memory of the event, and with blood on my hands. I cannot be killed. And I cannot allow myself to die.”

“Oh.” Melanie scuffed her boot on the floor, unsure of what to say. “That’s horrible.” 

Jonathan nodded. “It is.” 

The choking silence returned, now more awkward and somber than fearful. Jonathan stared at the weapon at her hands. Melanie lowered her knife. 

“Did you come here to kill a monster, Miss King?” he finally asked. 

Melanie, for once, wasn’t sure. She had certainly come to  _ see  _ a monster. To prove it was there, and take pictures and samples and present it before the world--in a dramatic way, sure, but also to find the verdict of the jury that was the internet. The knife was still in her hand. The stake burned in her pocket.

“No,” she found herself saying. Maybe not this time, in this situation, but she would have killed him. If she was threatened. If she was angry enough. “I came here for proof. To investigate.” 

His eyes, dark and hard, seemed to examine every inch of that statement, and Melanie with it. His gaze flayed her alive. “I can give you whatever evidence you need, but I will ask a favor from you.”

She swallowed slowly and nodded. “What do you want?”

“I need a monster killed.”

* * *

Jon had been poking around in the parlor bookshelves for what might have been hours before a slam sounded behind him. He let out an unflattering yelp at the noise.

“Good lord, Melanie! You- you scared me.”

She held a small bundle, a wax sealed envelope, and a hand-bound book in her arms that she hadn’t had previously. The camera was nowhere to be seen. 

“I’ve got what I need. Let’s go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes out to my fellow fans of the good Dr. Fanshawe! I hope I wrote him well. A man with the balls to cut Jonah Magnus out of his life via scathing letter deserves my best efforts. Sorry it was late! I have a lot of exams on right now.
> 
> Fun fact, the Contortionists Handbook is actually a novel. It's one of the more obscure titles I know, and I think Jon like obscure books.
> 
> UPDATE: If you were looking for a new chapter the week of Valentine's day, I'm very sorry to announce I need to skip this week! I have a submission for the TMA Valentine exchange, and I really need to finish that before anything. Next week should have the promised update, though! I may post a short Jonmartin this week to make up for it!


	8. The spirit of these walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to work, and another opportunity presents itself.

Jon,” Georgie said over the bottle of wine they were splitting for New Years, “what are you doing?” 

Jon didn’t answer, not really. He offered a non-committal mumble and went back to being stretched over the entire couch and looking forlornly at his bag. There was a card in that bag. He’d found it when Georgie was out and he thought he could sneak some proper work in. It was still in there, of course. Burning a hole into his alcohol-warmed chest. 

Martin had slipped it in. Just a little, store-bought card with a handwritten note and a picture of a kitten in a Christmas sweater. 

> _ Jon, _
> 
> _ I never got the chance to ask if you celebrate Christmas, but I know that Tim does, and it didn’t feel right to do something for him and not everyone else.  _
> 
> _ I hope your break is going well, and if you do celebrate, that you get some nice things this year. I think I’m going to miss working with you, a little. It’s nice to have the late-night company, and it’s certainly more interesting than just being in the library.  _
> 
> _ Just try not to pull too many late nights over the break, okay? I know the school is closed, but I get the feeling you’d manage to overwork yourself anyways. You really shouldn’t do that, you know. It’s not like those moldy stories can’t wait a few more days.  _
> 
> _ Since you’re probably all worried about professionalism, and what could be found appropriate, I promise to keep gifts small. I think you’ll like them anyways. _
> 
> _ Happy Christmas,  _
> 
> _ Martin. _

The envelope contained assorted packets of blended tea, a handful of pressed flowers, and a homemade bookmark. A book-shaped metal pin. Little things that he could have given anyone. It probably didn’t cost him more than a fiver. 

And Jon could not stop thinking about it. The pin pressed into his jumper, and he prodded at it absentmindedly, having left the rest of the offerings in the safety of the bag. He’d considered making the tea, of course, but he didn’t want to ruin it. So instead, he stared at the bag, ignoring the chatter from Georgie, and pictured Martin, carefully tucking things into the envelope, sneaking past the others to give it to him. Was he supposed to return the favor? 

He got lost in his own thoughts enough that he didn’t notice Georgie had stopped talking until she gently tapped him. 

“Earth to Space Jon,” she teased, nudging him again. “I thought I was the one that got to go catatonic. No stealing my thing.” She leaned back into her chair, satisfied that she had his attention. “What are you thinking?”

Jon shrugged and flipped over on the couch. “Martin got me a Christmas gift.” 

Her eyes went wide. “And you didn’t burn it?” 

“I don’t burn misguided presents!” 

“You usually act like you want to. You don’t like Christmas, Jon, and you certainly don’t do gifts.” 

He audibly let his disagreement be known. “He was just doing little things for everyone. Not really enough to consider a proper gift. It doesn't mean anything.”

“But it bothers you,” she prompted.

“I-” A knot of  _ something, _ a feeling between warmth and anticipation, clouded Jon’s head. “I don’t know what to do about it.” 

“Do you want to get him something in return? That’s what people do, right?” Georgie offered hesitantly. Despite her hard-wrought stability and healthy social life, Jon was reminded that Georgie didn’t always know what to do. She was just as socially clumsy, sometimes. It did sound appealing to get something for Martin, though. He deserved something nice. 

“Yes. That must be it.” Jon fiddled with the pin some more. The cool and smooth surface of it was appealing. The little items Martin gave him felt like something he wasn’t allowed. Little, beautiful things that Jon could indulge in. That did sound like Martin, with his poetry and his cups of tea.

Once again, Jon felt like something was missing.

* * *

The reopening of the university usually felt like a breath of fresh air, with the promise of a proper return to Jon’s work and routines. This time, every minute leading up to the scheduled meeting of everyone in the archives added weight to the mug in Jon’s laptop bag, so that when he stood at the door to the library, he felt he could barely hold it. He could barely tell what had happened the rest of the day.

He was just going to go in, leave the damned gift and move on with his day. There was lots of research to be done, after all. 

If he tripped over his words and ended up just thrusting the mug at the poor man, then he wasn’t about to acknowledge it. If Martin turned red, and broke out into a smile that was bright enough to get Jon to squint, he wasn’t going to dwell on that, either. If that smile had been enough to fill the empty space, Jon had been trying to address for weeks? That was just as well.

* * *

Jon refused to let it affect him more than strictly necessary, but his abstinence apparently only went so far. When Tim and the man who’d tried to throw Jon down a staircase appeared in his focus, looking at him expectantly, he realized he had failed to register much of the last hour. 

He shook himself mentally and tried to maintain a professional air. “I’m sorry… what’s going on?” 

The man who’d threatened him- Mike, that was his name- let out a sigh that was big enough to rustle nearby papers. “This was a waste of time.” 

“Hey, hey.” Tim shot out an arm to grab him, and eyed Jon. “He just gave you an offer for another mysterious book heist.”

Jon stiffened. He’d heard all about how the last time had gone. “Another?”

Mike shrugged. “Our source is good. I only came to Tim because we’re going to need a big team. Letting you have first pick of the goods costs less than trying to find some cooperative criminals.”

Tim cracked a grin at that. “I can’t believe you thought of me to be a partner in crime. That’s almost sweet.” 

Mike let out a huff at that, but smiled back. Jon studied the two closely. If he wasn’t mistaken, which in all fairness, happened often enough, Tim and Mike had a playful friendship. Jon wondered if he knew about his friend’s violent tendencies.

They were using that look again, clearly expecting him to contribute. 

“What do you want from us, exactly?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t exactly trust the man who had threatened him upon their first meeting. Even if he got on well with Tim.

“Ground cover, mostly. There shouldn’t be anyone there to discover us, thanks to whatever string Mikaele pulled, but we’ve got the one night, and the only thing we know is that there’s definitely something hidden in the Magnus Manor.” Mike crossed his arms across his chest. “Are you in?” 

_ Yes,  _ was Jon’s first thought.  _ It’s been weeks since I had the chance to work, and I’m in desperate need of a breakthrough.  _

“I- I cannot speak for the rest of my staff,” he said instead. 

“Aha!” Tim cried, doing a small dance step. “I told you, he’s in.” 

* * *

The Magnus Manor was built on an old abbey in Nottinghamshire, a nearly three hours drive from London. Jon found himself packed in a university-issue van with seven others, desperately trying to keep both awake and sane as the drive stretched on. Martin, beside him, had already dozed off. His slack weight was warm and soft against Jon, and his face was lit up with the dusty light of the setting sun. It filled Jon with a quiet satisfaction, and a jarring, much more frantic anxiety. It warmed him and wrenched his gut all at once. Jon tried not to give the feeling much thought.

On his other side sat a man Jon hadn’t met before, presumably recruited to help Mike. He’d introduced himself as Gerry, and proceeded to offer Jon a cigarette before their trip was off. Now that they were two hours in, Jon regretted turning him down. Still, Gerry was easy enough to get along with. He had a similarly dry sense of humor, and knew at least one or two of the same bands as Jon. 

Otherwise everyone in the car was unfortunately familiar. Tim and Sasha sat at the very front, unreasonably excited for an illegal excursion. Behind them, Mike, Michael and Mikaele were squeezed comically together in the very back. Michael offered everyone coffee and awkward, disjointed conversation, while Mikaele kept requesting various music. 

As Nottinghamshire drew nearer, they traded what they knew about the Manor itself. Sasha knew a thing or two about the priory that it was built on having been established by a somewhat occult-sounding branch of King Henry II’s church. It had been sold of a grand ancestor of Magnus’s, but with a caveat- living in what once was a church was the invitation of a curse. 

“They say that the whole Magnus name has been mixed up with the curse from that moment,” Jon intoned, reciting what he remembers from his own studies. “Family members consistently suffered from nightmares and bouts of paranoia, and bad luck. It’s said the curse is connected to the family of rooks that live on the grounds and never leave- and when the curse is lifted the birds will be nowhere to be found.” 

Gerry shrugged. “My mom always said that Jonah Magnus haunted the place. His servants saw him smoking in his pipe in the library, in his reading chair. They refused to enter the library itself for years afterwards.” 

“An old, cursed place? Those are always haunted by more than one thing, you know,” Michael added, as if this were something obvious to everyone. “There will be ghosts.” 

Jon twisted his sleeves between his fingers and frowned. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

The Magnus Manor was impressive, despite its age. Time and weather seemed to have worn it down more than most old English estates, and despite every effort given to maintain the grounds, a dampened, decayed feeling permeated the very ground. The dark of night did not help, and Jon found himself shivering from both the effects of his irrational fear, and the lack of Martin’s sleepy warmth. 

“We’re going to split up and look for the collection,” Gerry announced, directing people into teams. “Mikaele, keep Michael out of trouble. You can look through the abbey part, by the altar and pews. Mike, you’re with Tim. Take the gardens. Jon, you’re with the big guy over there, searching the top floors.” He pointed at Sasha “You. Come with me.” 

Michael looked thoughtful for a moment, tapping at his face with slender fingers and overgrown nails. “You’re looking for an ornate container, a little bigger than a breadbox. It’ll have some sort of lock, and there’s loose poetry and the beginnings of a novel inside. Yes, that’s it.” 

* * *

They split up, taking their torches in hand and only minorly feeling like the main cast of a cheesy ghost hunting show. The stairs creaked with loud complaints beneath Jon’s feet, but Martin, despite his size, walked silently. The old furniture that would have been appropriately vintage-tacky in daylight seemed looming and ominous in the night.

“I didn’t get to thank you for the mug, earlier,” Martin told the empty air beside Jon. If he was having trouble looking Jon in the eye, it would be impossible to tell. Jon couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He swept through the dark with his gaze instead, peering carefully at the preserved paintings and informational plaques. 

He tried to speak, but an odd sound came out instead, so he cleared his throat. “I was just returning the favor. I don’t, uh, usually celebrate holidays, but it was nice.” 

“Oh!” Martin jumped a little as Jon pried a door open with a loud creak. “Right. Sorry about that. Just wanted to be nice.” 

Jon didn’t know what to say to that. The room he had opened to was clearly someone’s bedroom. The plaque by the door declared it “Rook Cell.” 

A grande four-post stood in the room center, framed elegantly by a faded canopy. The sign perched nicely on the seat read “Please do not cross the ropes.” Jon stepped over the line with ease and crouched down to peer under the bed. 

“Georgie’s girlfriend filmed here a while ago,” he announced, after a while. The silent searching had quickly gone from practical to painful. “She said they couldn’t use a lot of the footage from in the house, it wasn’t grand enough.” 

Martin looked at the green eye-shaped brocade of the walls and let out a chuckle. “I’ll admit, if they were going to film in my home I would have picked a better wallpaper.” 

Jon moved a washbasin aside, checking the floorboards beneath it. “Do you think-” 

He was cut off by the sound of the door to the room slamming shut. The creaking sound of footsteps on the floor started from what must have been the end of the hall. 

Martin looked over at him, eyes wide. “Jon. Was that-” 

“It’s not me,” Jon replied in a harsh whisper. “It’s… I don’t know.” 

“Maybe,” Martin began to ramble, “maybe it’s just Tim and the others, playing a joke? That’s more likely than ghosts, right? Just them having a bit of fun at our expense?”

“This isn’t one of Tim’s jokes,” Jon replied with dread sincerity. “He wouldn’t do that.” 

Martin made a horrified choking noise, and Jon, not knowing what else to do, shuffled to his side, quietly. He never took his eyes off of the door. 

Suddenly, without the door opening, a figure appeared. 

At first it appeared to be a man under a hood, but as it moved closer, the cloak hiding its body and face warped impossibly, as if the thing underneath was unable to hold a consistent form. 

Without thinking, Jon directed the beam of his torch directly into its face to disorientate it, or at least see who it was. The light from the beam filtered out several inches away from the figure, leaving its face the same indecipherable darkness as before. 

But it did reveal its eyes. Unnaturally red, glaring pinpoints of reflected light stared back at Jon and froze him in place. It stepped forward again, before leaping atop the bed to loom over him, and Jon recognized what the creature was supposed to be. “The Black Friar.” 

Martin, behind him, was apparently not as frozen as he was. He was standing at his full height, hovering protectively over Jon with a hoisted vase over his head. He stood aggressive and brave, but his face looked like he wanted to cry. “W-What?” he stuttered out, a half-whisper to Jon.

“Don’t attack it!” he shouted, throwing his arms out. “It won’t hurt you. I think.” 

Martin stepped back, but refused to lower the vase. “Sorry, but I don’t really like that vote of confidence.”

“Don’t you see, Martin? It’s the Black Friar.” Jon stepped towards it. “From one of Jonah’s stories. He’s a harbinger. They don’t do anything. Just warn you of bad luck.” 

From behind him came Martin’s indignant noise. “What, like mothman?” 

“What, I-” Jon sputtered. This was really not the time for this conversation. “Sure, yes, like a mothman. The point is, I’m trying to figure out what it’s warning us about!” 

His shouting must have worked, because Martin went quiet after that. 

The figure stood on the bed, eying him, waiting. A shiver ran through all of Jon. 

“What are you trying to tell me?”

* * *

Mikaele did not appreciate being ordered around by someone half his age. He also wasn’t particularly fond of having been assigned Michael, a man who for all his talents and half-friendly behavior, was very much an enigma. He still wasn’t sure why Mike had decided to hire him.

They walked together through what was once a beautiful parish. Outside the arched stone, a swarm of rooks croaked their calls. Wonderful. That was not in the least bit ominous. 

The furniture and paintings left around were worth quite a lot of money, Mikaele appraised casually. It was quite the shame that he would only be leaving with an ornate box and a book. He had signed on to be a bookseller, though. Even if it allowed for him to embrace his love of luxury goods and travel, he only got to trade in the rare and occasional collection of pages. And he got to spend time with Michael, who was a fine man, really. A good coworker, if a bit strange. 

A flash of blonde hair darted ahead of him, and Mikaele sighed. Michael was also the source of his twice-daily headache. 

The floor changed from tiled stone to worn blue carpet as Mikaele followed his colleague into the main prayer room. Michael’s torch bounced wildly along the walls, glancing past stained glass in multicolour and geometric wall inlays in gold and pale green. It was a truly beautiful building. Not hard at all to see how the greatest minds of the creative world would be raised somewhere so artfully crafted. The pews were in surprisingly good shape for their age, even if some of the building was worse for the wear. 

At the head of the room was an altar. A big black dog sat on the table, his hulking body crushing down on the pages of the open text, tail nearly avoiding brushing off the table. 

He remembered hearing somewhere that black, ghostly dogs were bad luck. 

Michael reached out a hand to the beast, and didn’t seem to react when his fingers went right though the thing. “Oh. Hello!” 

Mikaele was certain that it was not the wise choice to touch a bad omen, but Michael had managed to survive some equally strange things. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

“You know, when I said something about a night out, this wasn’t really what I meant,” Tim commented as they moved through the gardens.

The landscaping was beautiful. They had made their way around the perimeter of the grounds, passed a grand lake and a whole area of garden built around various locations: American, Japanese, French, Spanish. A walled-in area with a sign caught Tim’s interest. 

“Or maybe it could be.” He wrapped his hand around Mike’s wrist, and pulled him forward. They marched together, Tim with enthusiasm and Mike with reluctance, past the sign, which read in pretentious font: “Rose Garden.”

The atmosphere would have been idyllic were it not the middle of the night where they were looking to dig up some kind of ghost story in what was supposed to be a deeply haunted place.

That, and Mike was sulking. He kicked his feet at the gravel paths and grass beneath them, and didn’t look particularly enthused about actually  _ looking  _ for anything, despite Tim’s best efforts.

“So should we be digging under statues, or…?” he tried again, sending him a look of genuine concern. “Look, Mike, you’re worrying me.” 

“We’re not going to find anything out here,” Mike grumbled in return. “We’re being sidelined.”

“Okay.” Tim turned on his heel slowly and started walking backwards. “What exactly does that mean?” 

“This Jonah Magnus thing. Gerry and Mikaele know something is going to happen with it, and instead of telling me, we get to go along for the ride.” He let out a sigh that was enough to make a small cloud in the night air.

Tim stopped walking. “Do you mean something dangerous?” All humor had dropped out of his tone.

“I don’t know. But it’s probably not good.” 

“Is that why you were hoping Jon would turn you down? Mike, you should have  _ said something.”  _

“Maybe.” He looked terrible. Regret wasn’t an emotion that suited Mike.

“Well, we’re all in this now, aren’t we?” Tim said, in an attempt to help. “It’s not just on you.”

“No,” Mike replied, his face crumbling. The night air felt so cold. “I’m-” 

Tim’s arms were around his shoulders before he could finish what he was saying. He shut his eyes tightly and spoke into his hair. “You aren’t going to keep anything from me, and I won’t keep anything from you. We’re the only two looking out for the idiots in our lives, and we can look out for each other.  _ We’re  _ in this. Okay?”

Mike relaxed ever-so-slightly into the touch, still pulled tight like a wire. “Okay.” 

Tim took a deep breath and began to pull away. As he looked up, he noticed something behind Mike. He froze.

Mike tried to pull away, and noticed that Tim wasn’t letting go. “What’s-” Tim held him fast.

There was no sound but for the harsh inhale and exhale of Tim’s breath, and Mike’s small noises of frustration. The uncomfortable cold of the air was now bone-deep, and Tim felt altogether too warm and frigid.

“Mike,” Tim whispered harshly. “There’s something there.” He released the other man, slowly letting him turn around. 

A pale woman, all in white, stood behind them. She wore a vintage gown that brushed gently along the ground, obscuring her feet. Her hair was falling out of some ornate, outdated style. She was crying into a wispy cloth. Low, crackling sobs bubbled out through her throat, growing louder as she floated nearer. Misery emanated from her form.

“Excuse me,” Mike called out to her, before Tim could stop him.

The woman looked up at them, brought a hand to her chest and  _ shrieked.  _ It was all Tim could do to not duck with his hands over his ears. She dove into a rosebush in a way that shouldn’t have been possible, without a rustling or crashing of branches and instead a low gust of wind and dissipating smoke. 

Tim let out a hysterical laugh. “That. That was a ghost. A ghost! What the hell have we gotten into?” 

* * *

Jon found himself drawn into the red gaze of the Black Friar. He felt his body moving forward without his permission. 

_ Jonah. _

The voice wasn’t a voice, really. More like the understanding that someone was communicating with him, like what might have happened in a dream. 

_ Jonah,  _ it repeated. 

“My- My name is Jon.” 

_ The ritual is nigh,  _ the figure offered,  _ and the original six of whom the deal has stuck shall be ready. It is the beginning. _

“The beginning… beginning of what?”

_ You have found the first, of dreams.  _

_ You have found the next, of beauty. _

Jon was suddenly flooded with the images of… someone. And then again, another man. Jon’s chest swelled with emotion he didn’t understand. People he recognized, despite his instinct to know that was impossible. He’d never seen these men before.

The third of the Friar’s list apparently was not worth mentioning, perhaps left unfound. It continued on: 

_ You have found the fourth, of reason. _

_ You have found the fifth, of faith.  _

Jon’s knees fell out from under him, as the next flash of faces- familiar people and unfamiliar faces. A flash of emotion. 

_ You have found the sixth, of knowledge.  _

The world was spinning around those eyes, and Jon felt everything begin to slip away at the edges. 

“What does…” he forced out, “What does that mean? How do I fix this?”

_ The dead shall rise again, in a deal to thwart oblivion. You, Jonah, will transfuse enough of your story. And the ritual will begin.  _

And that was all the rest he got out of the exchange before the world went dark. 

* * *

Sasha’s head was buried in a cabinet as Gerry examined the edges of each bookcase for a compartment or catch. 

“So why are you here?” she asked him and the empty room. “Thought I wouldn’t see you much after the graveyard.” 

He knocked on the side of a particularly tall shelf. “Would you believe Michael dragged me into it?”

She thought about it for a moment. “No. I think you’re involved in something.” 

He chuckled at that. “You’d be right.” 

She closed the door to the cabinet and surveyed the room, her hands on her hips. “What were you saying earlier, about the ghost of Jonah Magnus?”

He walked over to a very old chair, his studded leather boots making loud and dull thuds on the floor. Then, without ceremony, he plopped into it, and pulled out a cigarette. “Jonah’s ghost would appear, and smoke, right here.” He took out his lighter. “Do you mind?”

She didn’t respond, because as Gerry had sat down, something from beneath the floor at his feet started glowing. For a moment, she just stared at the glow began to spread up and out of the room, like a luminescent mist. 

She heard his lighter flick to life, and she regained her ability to speak. “Gerry, look!” She gestured beneath the chair. His eyes widened, and he leaped up, sweeping the chair to the side with ease. 

She knocked on the surface of the wood, relishing in the hollow sounds that came from it. “There’s a compartment under here!” 

Gerry, from somewhere, produced a knife. “Allow me.” 

Under the floorboards, still swirling with glowing steam, was an ornately carved locked box. 

“This is it,” Gerry breathed, holding it up in his hand and turning it over slowly. 

“Right, let’s get to the others, and-” 

She was cut off by Martin’s ringing cry. “Jon!”

* * *

When Jon came to, Martin’s face was inches away from his. 

“What?” he asked, trying to jerk away. 

“Oh!” Martin startled, jolting away quickly. “You’re awake!” 

“Where?” Jon tried to recall what had happened. “There was a- a...” 

“A ghost?” Tim’s voice offered, from somewhere to Jon’s left. “Yeah, we had one, too. Martin was telling us about your spooky priest.”

“Not that this isn’t lovely,” Mikaele chimed in, “But since we have what we wanted, don’t you think we should make our exit? I don’t intend to sit here until morning.”

“Right!” Sasha took over, from his right. “Help him into the car, Martin. We need to get out of here.” 

Jon found himself pressed into the warm form of Martin once again, and all at once realized what the feeling tugging at his heart was, why it only appeared when Martin was there with him. 

He didn’t want to give it the name. After everything that had happened, somehow  _ that  _ was the things that made the most sense. He had just had a conversation with one of the most famous hauntings in all of the United Kingdom. He could think about a potential crush later. 

In either case, Georgie would never believe him. 


	9. Favour my solemn song, for I have loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Lukas returns to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter has elements that are similar to the Lonely in TMA cannon, struggles with/loss of identity, as well as the reanimated dead.

> To Mr. Elias Bouchard, England
> 
> Arkhangelsk, March 28th 20--
> 
> Hello Elias,
> 
> Here is the letter you insisted that I send off when I reached Archangel. I’m here, and completely safe. You can stop trying to send someone to oversee me now. The expedition is going well so far- the good news is that most of the accompanying researchers have been taken off the mission! It’s just myself and Dr. Pritchard, now. He’s supposed to be a chemist, I believe. Oh, did I tell you? I ran into a familiar ship in St. Petersburg. Do you remember sailing on the  _ Dorian _ ? They’ve recently switched captains, something about the old one becoming a bookseller. Sounds awful boring, if you ask me. 
> 
>   
>  Don’t send me a reply letter that just asks about finances or the weather, Elias. You know very well I received a nice grant for this trip, and if you didn’t know, it’s cold here. I’m in full health, I have actually heard the news, and I’m sure I’m sorely missed. I’ll be off again by the time you receive this, and you’ll hear from me again when I get home. I’m the first Lukas to make it this far north since my grandfather, andI’ll make the most of it. I think we’re going to be successful. 
> 
> Try not to die down in London.
> 
> P.L.

* * *

###  November, 1822 

Mordechai Lukas stood in the doorway of his manor’s firelit basement. He had been called from his chambers at one in the morning, and if this was without good reason, then the consequences were likely to be dire. Rain pelted the thin window, the only source of moonlight to the underground laboratory. The dark only emphasized the silver shine of Mordechai’s carefully acquired equipment, the quality he had demanded in this service and this space. His half-gone candle was left alone to light the hall.

In front of him some small, nerve-ridden doctor was rambling wildly in German to the other two scientists he’d hired on. His patience was already worn thin. He coughed pointedly, less of a gentle throat clearing and more of a growl. It attracted their attention quickly enough. “Why was I called here?” 

Rather than the expected silence and withdrawal of the scholars, a level of respect Mordechai expected from most of the men in his employ, the scientists only seemed to grow brighter and more jovial. After another stumbling litany of german, they addressed him. “My lord, we’ve done it!” 

The exhaustion and annoyance gave way to something sharper and darker. He smelled victory the way sharks could smell blood. It had been some years since his initial bet with Jonah, and his enthusiasm for it had only grown. Mordechai knew already his place among the others, and the importance of coming in first. He had invested a fair bit of himself and his fortune into the contest. This certainly had his attention. “Finally.” He stepped into the dark room entirely. “Do get on with it.”

The grumble of thunder from outside punctuated his words. As his team pulled back the sheet from their creation, a humanoid form upon the slab, lightning flashed from the window, and for a brief moment illuminated it with ozone brightness.

The creature on the table was beautiful. Inhumanly large in size, with smoothly pale and clear skin, well-formed muscle underneath. The black hair that cascaded down its back was longer and thicker than Mordechai’s own, which had begun to grey and fade. Its hands were clear of his own battle-wrought scars. It was perfect because Mordechai would not have accepted anything less.

“Excellent work, gentlemen.” He offered, high praise compared to his usual judgement.. “Let us proceed immediately.” 

And so they did. The threat of morning crept through the dark as his experts toiled away. Their silver tools of life and science and things Mordechai himself did not need to understand bustled about, and pulled and cinched and sliced. Steam rose from the body of the creature and filled the room with an even fog, the glint of metal and flesh flashing through it. Even as they worked, Mordechai’s resolve did not flinch.

The candle in the hall burned down to it’s last dregs, and as it descended to smoke, the morning light finally broke through the small window and into the Lukas Manor. 

The dull yellow of the creature’s eye opened; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

* * *

Barnabas Bennett arrived at the Lukas Estate some hours later, nearing lunch. He had long avoided the man to whom he was now in a great deal of debt for his continued gambling and living. He would leave Jonah’s side regularly, to avoid the mean, only to return when it was safe with some story of love and nature to appease him. He was careful to hide the strain he was under from Jonah’s hungry eyes.

There was no foreseeable way to avoid it this time. In his hands he clutched the letter, which Jonah had asked him personally to deliver. He should have denied the favor by some story or excuse. But to see the concern in Jonah, the unusual heartbreak in his face, was too much. His quick thinking had been slowed by his own fond heart, and by now it was far too late. 

Servants wordlessly escorted him onto the grounds, the cold and passive nature of the house Lukas ever-present. It suffocated Barnabas in a way it had not before. He was led from his carriage and through the house to a drawing room he had never been permitted to enter before. The cold morning mist had never quite lifted, and some of it seemed to permeate the house itself. Mists could be beautiful in the light, or so Banabas had said before to friends on an early morning stroll, but this one was not. It hung on him like a weight. 

He was left in what he thought was an empty room, a low level of fog swirling at his feet, when he heard a large body shift behind him. 

He felt something wild and skittish within him, and resisted the urge to jump into the air with fright. “Mordechai?” he began, tentatively. “My dear friend, I-” 

They had not been friends for a long time. Perhaps, to Mordechai’s judgement, they never had been. He felt the cold stare of eyes on his back. Suppressing a shudder, he continued to address the room.

“I have a letter here, from Jonah. He is quite well, so do not be alarmed. It’s just, we hear from you so seldom- I mean to bring back a report of your wellbeing to him. There should be an invitation, too, with the letter. If I could ask you for a-” He meant to beg for a reply and Mordechai’s attendance to some event, but was silenced by an inhuman hiss. 

“Have you not taken enough that is mine that you seek to ask more of me?” A voice echoed through the chamber, sounding both like Mordechai and bigger than he ever was. The voice was metallic and hollow. “You still think of Jonah as your angel, and will belong to him as he so requests, but I know him now to be a snake. I would follow him for greatness and receive what? He has taken from me  _ everything!”  _

A hand, too big, too cold, appeared at the back of Barnabas’s neck. He was frozen to the spot, unable to so much as flinch.

The voice returned again. “He shall repay me in kind.”

* * *

> _ Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans, _
> 
> _ The passionate tumult of a clinging hope; _
> 
> _ But pale despair and cold tranquillity, _
> 
> _ Nature's vast frame, the web of human things, _
> 
> _ Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. _

As December drew to a close, Jonah Magnus arrived at the house of Mordechai Lukas. By then, there was nothing for him there but a collection of writings and the bones of Barnabas Bennett. 

__

Mordechai had long since left for the Arctic.

* * *

###  Some 200 years later, 

Captain Peter Lukas returned to London from yet another research trip to the north of Rudolph Island, and met Jonathan Sims.

Jon stood in the library, exhausted from dealing with undergraduates. He sought out the library front desk. He knew that Martin would not be able to help in the Archives until his shift ended, which was fine, and pre-agreed upon, but he wanted to see him before that. There was something in the way that his face would light up when Jon greeted him that prompted Jon to visit as often as reason would allow.

This time, Martin was busy with a tall, washed-out man that Jon didn’t particularly recognize. He was old enough to be staff at the University, likely a teacher from another course of study. His hair, clothes and skin were unsaturated and pallid, to the point of feeling not entirely there. Something about him twisted Jon’s stomach. It was in the way he leaned over Martin, despite Martin’s size. His eyes and quiet, jovial speech felt… malicious. Possessive. It was familiar, somehow. Jon grit his teeth. 

Before he fully understood what he was doing, he was walking up to the counter to interrupt them. “Martin!” 

Pale blue and warm brown eyes threatened to trap him in place. Martin smiled at him. “Oh, Jon! Did you need something?”

“Yes, actually, I--” Jon reached wildly for an excuse, but none came. “Er--” 

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced!” The pale man turned to him with all the charm of a life insurance salesman . “I’m Peter Lukas. I’m with the Marine Biology department.” 

“Jonathan Sims. I’m working on my doctorate under Dr. Bouchard,” Jon replied, cold enough that he noticed Martin flinching. He tried to reduce the strength of his glare for Martin’s sake.

Lukas was unphased. “Ah, so you’re familiar with my partner.” The air between them crackled with tension.

Martin did his best, despite this. “Peter was just telling me about his work in the Arctic! His team is trying to combat the extinction of certain species due to climate change.” 

Something in Jon doubted that Peter’s motivation was in saving the cuddly seals of the world. 

“Anyways, a little birdie told me that you were interested in poetry.” Peter Lukas turned to Martin, having apparently decided to ignore Jon. “And I thought I’d bring you a little gift.” 

The book he placed in Martin’s hands was old, and Jon had seen enough works from the era of Jonah Magnus to hazard a guess at how old. 

“ _ Alastor _ ,” Martin read aloud, “ _ Or the Spirit of Solitude, and Other Poems _ . ” He opened the front cover. “Peter, this was-” 

“Printed in 1822, yes. It’s something I inherited with the family library.” 

“I can’t possibly take this, Peter, I--” 

“I wasn’t getting any use of it anyway,” Peter said, and he put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. The image hit Jon like ice water. He wasn’t used to Martin, who reached top shelves over him and threatened to throw historical vases at ghosts, looking so small. He didn’t like the way that Peter grinned, and how his smile didn’t quite match his eyes. “Now, Martin.” Peter’s tone implied that denying the gift wasn’t an option. “I’m sure you’ll find it a good read.” 

With that, he stepped away and drifted off, leaving Martin to gape at the book in his hands, and Jon to seethe in place. 

* * *

The problem with Peter Lukas was that he just kept appearing. For an awfully busy man who had no business in an archive, he was always around the corner, right when Jon was building up some kind of courage to talk to Martin- he showed up at library closing, on Martin’s lunch breaks, even in the middle of their meetings, once. It was beyond annoying and into the territory of suspicious. Jon hoped that Martin must recognize that. 

He was becoming suspicious himself, jumping at the first flash of blonde hair or whiff of seasalt. Jon tried to lose himself in the work, which usually worked, but every late night he walked home without Martin saying goodbye just further soured the taste in his mouth.

He wanted to shout when Martin revealed one afternoon that he was no longer going to be working for the library. 

Martin’s hands fidgeted around the mug of tea he had dragged Jon up to share. Jon was tempted to shatter his own cup. 

“Peter’s offered me a really well paying job as his assistant,” Martin said, with a smile that wasn’t quite happy enough for someone finding a good job. “The money would be nice, and well. Elias says I can still work for you in the meantime.” 

Jon forced his face into what should have been professional interest. The most he could really hope for was cold neutrality. “Will this uh…” He tried to think of what a decent boss was supposed to say about that. “Affect your work with us?” 

“No, don’t worry, I made it very clear that I’d like to keep working with you as I do. To be honest, it didn’t seem to phase him much,” Martin reassured him. He met Jon’s eye, and the loneliness in his face shook Jon out of his skin. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Good,” Jon replied hollowly. “I can’t afford you to get worse distracted.” 

Martin’s gaze snapped back to his tea, and the moment was broken.

* * *

As soon as Martin started working for Peter, Jon noticed him pulling away. Martin had always been friendly, even on a surface level. First it was just the lack of after-work comradery. Tim and Sasha would invite everyone out, and Martin, looking exhausted, would decline. 

Then Jon noticed the loss of Martin’s helpful little sessions of tea. Dehydration and caffeine withdrawal pounded headaches into his skull, but he refused to try and make any for himself. It felt too much like accepting defeat. 

When days of this turned into weeks, Jon began to realize that he had to actively seek Martin out to talk to him at all. 

“Did you find anything else on vampires?” He’d start, trying to get a conversation in, to get Martin to look at him. Anything. 

“No. I’ll let you know if I do,” came the flat reply, and Jon found himself standing between two archive shelves, completely alone. 

He stood there, frozen in cold rejection, for an indefinite amount of time. He returned to himself at the sound of someone’s approach behind him. 

“Jon, there you are.” Elias spoke up.

He turned carefully. “Yes?” 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’ve met one of the biggest sponsors of our exhibit. He told me he’d be around lately, so I’m hoping your introduction may have happened more organically. Have you spoken with Mr. Lukas?” 

Jon failed to restrain himself from making a face. “Yes. We’ve been acquainted.” 

If Elias noticed, he graciously did not say anything. “Excellent! His family has had an extensive connection and investment in Jonah Magnus. I believe here somewhere there is a record of an agreement to sponsor Magnus, which was a dying practice at the time. Ah, always a little old-fashioned, that Lukas.” He said this as if to imply that it was Peter, and not some ancient ancestor who was an acting investor. Jon hoped he was just being cryptic, as he often was. It came with the territory of being London’s leading authority on ghosts.

“He’s hired Martin as his assistant, I believe. It’s distracting him from his work with us,” Jon complained. “Otherwise, I’m sure he’s a fine man.” 

Elias gave him a strange look. “Perhaps you should keep a better eye on Martin, then. It wouldn’t do for the project to have any setbacks.” He reached up to a shelf behind Jon, stepping uncomfortably into his personal space to do so. Jon leaned away as much as he could. He was prone to flinching when Elias touched him. He could smell the amber smell of Elias’s cologne. 

Elias drew back with a smooth movement, a document in hand. “This should contain some of the Lukas correspondences. If you need more, I’m sure Peter’s kept some in the Lukas’ own record and collection. He may know more about it than you’d expect. Keep up the good work.” He patted Jon’s arm, which felt at the very least condescending. “Do let me know how it goes.” 

And with that, Jon was once again alone. 

* * *

The more Jon’s research brought him into the life of Mordechai Lukas, the more his blood felt like ice. He was beginning to believe that there was so much more to the discomfort he felt around Peter than petty jealousy or suspicion. 

Mordechai Lukas was the name that funded some of the least ethical scientific and medical practices known to man. It didn’t appear that he knew, or particularly cared about how things were done, only that the work brought his private laboratory closer to the goal of extending human life.

The process itself seemed to involve a lot of corpses. Some stolen, others made. It required grievous amounts of money, of course, but it was nothing compared to the Lukas fortune, having already been made. Jonah received a portion of these funds, although there was no evidence of him ever using them for science. Then, after a report of one final murder, there was no record of him again.

It wasn’t until days after Elias had brought it up to him that Jon discovered the name of that final victim, tucked away in a scathing draft written up by Jonathan Fanshawe to Jonah Maguns a year or so after the fact and never sent. 

Mordechai Lukas was responsible for the death of Barnabas Bennett. 

Jon thought back to Peter, his large white hands passing over the first edition book to Martin. His family collection, he’d said. Jon didn’t like the implication that he might have meant his family collection of bodies. 

He shoved the papers he was holding into a folder in haste. He needed to find Martin. 

* * *

Martin boarded the boat at Peter’s insistence. It occurred to him, then, that this was normally the time he would be going to the archives, to work under Jon. Instead, he was at London docks, glancing over his shoulder at a bustling shoreline. 

“Peter, I-” he began to voice his objection.

“I know, Martin, not to worry. I sent word to Elias, and he assured me that Jon could do just fine without you,” Peter interrupted, not even bothering to look away from what he was doing with the Iron Mike. “I promise we won’t be long. There’s just something you need to see.”

“And what is that?” Martin asked, making his distaste for the situation known.

Peter was unflappable as ever. “Hang on, you’ll see soon enough.” He didn’t offer up anything else.

Martin realized that there wasn’t much about this he could do, and with a huff stared out at the horizon, thinking of poetry. 

> _ The day was fair and sunny; sea and sky _
> 
> _ Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind _
> 
> _ Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves.  _
> 
> _ Following his eager soul, the wanderer _
> 
> _ Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak aloft _
> 
> _ On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat, _
> 
> _ And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea _
> 
> _ Like a torn cloud before the hurricane.  _

The open ocean was closer than he really expected, or maybe he hadn’t realized how much time had passed. Still, Peter sailed them on into the horizon, until Martin couldn’t see any evidence of land at all. 

“Um, Peter?” he asked, but the larger man shushed him and told him to wait. They would be there soon. 

After a while, he realized that no engine or sail was driving the boat. There was no other crew. Some pull from the ocean itself was taking them away. “Peter, what is this?”

Peter took out an old whistle. It made a high, clear sound that could barely register in Martin’s hearing. When the note itself finally ended, Martin found that a thick smoke was rising from the water. Without anywhere to run, no weapon with which to defend himself, Martin stood, frozen.

The horizon began to feel less like an illusion and more like a cavern, opening into an endless void. Any thoughts of shore and returning felt so far away. He turned to Peter, the only other person in this new universe, and, for perhaps the first time, met his eyes. 

There was something in Peter’s eyes that tipped him off. Watery and staring in a way that living people’s eyes don’t rest. They were nearly the same colour as the skin around them, that stretched just slightly wrong atop his face, and pulled tight around his thin, blue lips. 

It occurred to him that Peter wasn’t a person at all.

“Oh, oh God.” Martin spoke aloud, to Peter, to himself. “You’re, you’re not alive at all, are you?”

Peter huffed at the thought, like it was mildly offensive. “You could say that.”

“I’m the only one out here.”

“Mhm,” Peter hummed, without losing the empty cheer to his voice. “I wouldn't count on the others noticing.” He gestured into the chasm they were sailing into, and Martin forced himself to look past the fog and into the void. 

“What others?” Martin finally asked, feeling his eyes drawn to the only thing that was left other than fog, the distant and inconstant moon. He tried to bring himself to remember, but his memory seemed as blank and swirling as the fog. “It’s just me.”

Peter chuckled beside him, a corpse to keep him company. “You’re getting it. Any minute now.”

The fog swirled higher, and Martin couldn’t see the chasm any more. There was no sign of even the moon. He stood there, alone in silence for what felt like forever. 

Then, he turned to the monster beside him. What was his name? Lukas. He thought it must be Lukas. 

“Oh, hello,” he said, wringing his hands into the sweater he was wearing. Was it his? It must be. The sweater fit him fairly well, and he liked sweaters. At least, he thought he did. Another question popped into his head, and he blurted it aloud before he could stop himself. 

“Who am I?”

* * *

When Martin didn’t show up for work that afternoon, Jon called him. When he didn’t see him, even after dark, he called again. And again. 

By the time it was 10pm, he’d gotten tired of pressing dial. He called Sasha instead. 

“Do you know where Martin lives?” he asked after she picked up, three rings in. Her voice was thick with sleep.

“What?” she demanded “Who is this?” 

“Jon,” He replied. “Do you know where Martin lives? He’s not answering my calls.”

She let out a sigh. “Yes, I know where Martin lives. No, I’m not telling you. Your boyfriend ghosting you is your own problem, Jon. I’ll talk to you in the morning, so get some sleep.” With that, she hung up.

He didn’t bother phoning Tim.

* * *

Martin didn’t show the next day. Or the day after that. Elias made his way down to announce that Martin was feeling under the weather, and that he would be back soon enough. Jon wanted to trust Elias, he really did. But ‘not feeling well’ was not a good enough explanation.

“How well do you know Peter Lukas?” he pestered Elias. He followed him down the hall to his office, unwilling to give up the chase. “Do you know what he’s--” 

“What he’s capable of?” Elias asked, slowing his walk, and then turning. “Mr. Lukas and I have quite the history.” 

“He’s got Martin, somehow,” Jon insisted. “Elias, he’s in danger. I--”

“You’re pretty fond of him, aren’t you, Jon. I must say, I am a little surprised.” Elias smoothly changed the subject, and Jon’s vision began to go red. “I didn’t realize you’d be so easily distracted by such… indulgences.” 

Jon raised his voice and tried again, “You--” 

“You’ll figure it out, Jon, if you think for a minute.” Elias interrupted again. He used the same serious and even tone as always. “Let’s say Peter Lukas takes  _ an awful lot _ after his ancestry. ” And with that, the door to the office of Elias Bouchard was slammed in his face. 

“Elias!” Jon shouted. “Elias!” 

There was no response. 

* * *

It was by some miracle that Jon discovered the location of the Lukas estate, and was allowed to drive Melanie’s car all the way out into the moorland. 

The iron gates were open, as tall and intimidating as they were. Jon found himself shivering on the doorstep of the giant Lukas Manor, hammering his fist on the door.

“Lukas, I know you’re in there!” he screamed into the empty courtyard. “I need to see Martin!” 

He pressed his forehead into the surface of the door and clenched his jaw, unwilling to lose it here, of all places. Martin was okay. He had to be. His fist slammed against the dark wood.

* * *

Some 200 years ago, Jonah Magnus lost the light in himself, standing in the exact same place. 


	10. Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there's some blood and fighting. Not anything worse than cannon TMA.

“--I know you’re not his biggest fan, but Jon never came home last night, and I’m getting a little worried. His coworker Tim said that he’d help with looking? You know how Jon is, getting himself in trouble just because he’s never known when to stop. I swear, if you don’t tear him a new one for this, I just might.” There was a pause where Georgie collected herself, tired and distressed as she sounded. “If you hear anything from him, or I don’t know,  _ the police,  _ let me know, please. And… call me back when you’re free, okay? Good luck with whatever ghost you’re hunting. Right. Bye, Melanie. Love you.” 

Georgie’s voice came through the phone speaker, soft and tinny to the dark room as Melanie packed up her kit. If she heard anything Georigie was saying, she gave no indication. Whatever was up with her girlfriend and ex couldn’t possibly be as important as her work.

She stuffed a lighter in her pocket, a canister of mixed pepper spray and accelerant, and then a pocket knife for good measure. In her bag he stashed her usual ghost equipment- night vision cameras, energy and sound monitors, EMF recorders and a temperature gauge. Everything she’d usually bring to a haunted filming location, and then some. There was a baton, a kitchen knife and another lighter, the best weapons she could locate under short notice. One could never be too careful when looking for monsters. 

Melanie King was going to war.

* * *

It was her second visit to the house in Soho when she was finally able to get some details on the deal with her vampire friend. He seemed none too happy to have another guest, but was polite enough. She leaned over the parlor table, digging her hands a little too forcefully into the ancient porcelain of his offered teacup. It was stale tea, without any milk, but it was a little easier to trust than his first offer of rich, red wine. 

“No offence, but I don’t really want to take anything that so much as  _ looks  _ like blood,” she had said, and he’d taken it with a bow of his head and only the smallest look of displeasure. It was hardly her greatest worry if a man that used to maim or kill people for their bodily fluids was hurt by her words. Especially when he was trying to get her to attack someone else. She did hope the substance in his glass really  _ was  _ wine, though.

He offered the evidence that he had that his friend Jonah was still around and kicking. Birth and death records of certain men, all with a close connection to his works or his name: the architect Robert Smirke, who died on the same day that Jonah did. The young and foreign Loukas Nikolo, who received a substantial sum and much of his collection after his death. Later, after Loukas died of age and illness, the first author of his biography and expert of his time: James Wright. 

“I attempted to confront Jonah myself while he was in the body of James,” Jonathan admitted, staring into the depths of his glass. “He laughed at me, the bastard. There was an unnatural familiarity to it. An old smile on an unfamiliar mouth, I suppose. In my folly and under his taunts, I took my own hands to his throat.” 

Melanie spit her tea back into the cup. It was difficult to picture the doctor, even in his admitted guilt, going after a man with his bare hands. Those hands now held the frame of his glass, like he was afraid of breaking it. She imagined there was very little that he did these days without being thought out and deliberate. 

“He’s not the man I once knew, and I imagine he hasn’t been for a very long time. I thought maybe, now, so many years after the first mistake with Albrecht that things might have been different. That wasn’t the case. He’s pleased with his lot in the world to take the lives of others to inhabit for himself. He reminded me of that, before I was, ah… able to silence him. Lukas, Magnus, and I, he insisted, were of the same cloth.” 

“Aren’t you, though?” she asked tentatively. “I mean, isn’t it all the same thing you’re caught up in?”

His mouth pressed into a pale, thin line, and his jaw was clenched like a steel trap. It took a moment before he could reply. “I take no joy from this, Miss King. That is what makes us different. I may have been eager to take it once, caught up in my need to be certain, but that is no longer the case.”

“And you still want me to kill him.” 

“You may have better chances than myself. I imagine he’ll be expecting me.” 

“Right.” Melanie swallowed and tried to think. “What exactly happened the last time? And why me, this time around?” 

Jonathan gave her a dry look, as if these questions were wholly unnecessary. Perhaps they were, but Melanie felt she had a right to information if he was going to have her running some kind of violent exorcism. “You’re the only person I’ve told about this in 200, years, Miss King. It’s not every day an expert on the supernatural breaks into your home,” he replied quietly. “The last time I faced Jonah, I took the life of the body he was in. I was foolish enough to think that would be the end of it. He simply possessed another in less than a year's time. I won’t be making that mistake again.” 

“Are you saying I’ll have to take out the poor guy who used to own the body? Is he still in there?”

“No. I have the solace of knowing that Jonah doesn't leave his victims… viable. He requires they take a vested interest in him while alive, of course, the reading of his works allows him a foot in the door. But the ritual of taking over, it..”

“Makes sure that no one’s home?”

“Essentially, yes. While I would be more than willing to pay the price myself, I will not ask you to hurt the innocent for the sake of preventing my old friend from doing the same. I am not sure you would comply if I did.”

Melanie gripped the edge of the table at that. “Likely not. Good call.” 

“I have good reason to believe that the ritual for his life is attached to his last manuscript, and if it is destroyed, he will not be able to transfer again. It’s not the only thing he’s attached to, so those who have consumed his later works may still be vulnerable, but… I am certain if his body is destroyed with the manuscript, it should be permanent.” 

“So you’re asking me to burn a book before I stab a guy,” Melanie figured.

“You would be stabbing only a ghost,” Jonathan corrected. “But yes.” 

“Okay.”

“Jonah isn’t foolish enough to leave all of the manuscript on his person, or somewhere vulnerable. You will likely find a page in his pockets, and the rest in his archives.” 

“Right. Are you sure I can take this guy in a fight?” 

“I have a tool that may aid you, but it comes with a price.” He brought out a folded old page, the edges of it crinkling with a delicate noise as he pressed it into her palm. “This is one of his war works. It should… offer you strength, at the price of undivided aggression. I have used it on myself before.” 

She turned it in her hands, but didn’t open it. “What, I just read it and I’m stronger? Just like that?”

“It will tie you to him, in return. Your aggravated state won’t be over until he’s decided it is, or you’ve won.” 

Melanie put the teacup to her lips and chugged down the rest of the stale tea, wishing just then that it was a much stiffer drink. “Alright then. I have about a hundred more questions, and then I swear I will hunt down your evil ghost.”

Jonathan gave her a lifeless smile. She got the feeling he was remembering an old friend. 

She carried that memory with her as she zipped up her coat and took the train to the biggest fight she’d ever signed up for.

* * *

The face of Peter Lukas was just barely visible in the window of the manor before it fogged over from the temperature outside. Regardless of how near they were to spring or summer, the estate was always cold.

He took a deep drag from his pipe, and turned back to what was once Martin Blackwood. “You know, Martin, it’s really not so bad of a deal once you get used to it.” 

The man’s blank face gave no response. 

“When I met with my great, great grandfather up north, you know what he said to me? He said that he’d finally won. He had his immortality, and beyond that, I was his legacy everlasting.” Lukas took another puff from his pipe. “And then he killed me. I still have the scar around my neck, if you look under the sweater. A surprisingly clean job, all things considered.”

More silence in return. Peter didn’t seem to mind.

“Point is, when I woke up, I  _ understood _ , Martin, and you will do the same. And you will mean so much more as part of that legacy.” He turned back to the window. “Ah, that’s right. You’re not Martin, anymore. Or so Elias tells me.” 

That got a reaction out of the man, a gasped intake of breath that was stifled just as quickly. 

“There you are. How are you feeling, Mr. Bennett? _ ”  _ he asked, and behind his grin was no longer the usual empty gentleness of Peter. It was something much older, and colder than before.

“Please,” the mouth of Martin begged with a voice that was not his. “Mordechai, whoever you are-- Please.” 

“Come now, none of that,” Peter replied. “We’re practically old friends.”

There was that knock at the door again. Peter elected to ignore it.

* * *

Jon waited outside the Lukas Manor for hours. His hands were red and raw from slamming, prying, scratching on the stone-cold door. There was never any response. The cold was biting and tugged at him, reminding him that there was a warm, solid body that he was missing, that he never really had in the first place. 

He’d done so terribly by Martin. He could only think of how little time he’d had with him, even in comparison to the other assistants. Jon hadn’t wanted anything to do with him at all, back when it all started, and once he’d gotten used to Martin’s easy presence, it was so good it scared him. He felt the damp chill penetrate his thin coat and thought about how it’d make his day easier to hear Martin’s voice. How it’d felt to press up against him, squished in the back seat of the van, or have their fingers brush as Martin passed him a mug. He thought, too, of how easily miserable he had been in Martin’s absence.

Some part of his mind told him that this had happened to him before, that this failure was something happening  _ again.  _ He had an image of someone else’s earnest and beautiful eyes, briefly someone else’s soft words and frivolous poetry. It haunted him with everything else, despite how he could not understand what it was. 

It was hours before he could pry himself from the door, desperation faded into a heavy sense of loss that he fought to keep from accepting. Martin would have fought through this. Jon pictured him, standing over Jon with an ancient vase over his head. He wouldn’t have given up. This wasn’t over yet. 

He searched his brain for a hint, a plan, for anything, grasping in his pocket for a cigarette. A card fell out of his pocket, the printed fractal glinting in the sun. 

Jon pried his tired body from the steps of the Lukas Manor, and took off for Mike’s Books.

* * *

Even without Jon’s lockpicking skills, breaking into the archives was easy for Melanie. 

The back door to the library, where Jon used to sneak out to smoke, was still unlocked and unguarded as usual. There was no light, of course, but she had her own small torch, and was more than accustomed to the dim of an empty place. The silence was deafening. 

As she crept out towards the stairwell, which guarded the archives themselves, she drew the knife from her pocket and extended the blade. There was no harm in being a little more prepared, she decided, as a shiver ran down her spine. Her fingertips brushed over the page in her pocket. She tried to ignore the pull she felt towards it, the power she could feel from the seemingly harmless scrap. 

She made it most of the way down the stairs when she noticed something that froze her in place. The door to the archives was wide open, and a soft light was emanating from inside. Was Jon here? 

She pressed herself close to the wall, intending to listen and detect who was there. Time ticked by, and all was silent. 

The paper in her pocket called to her again, stronger this time. She ignored it, and listened. She drew out her instruments, looking for any of her telltale signs of the paranormal. 

There was nothing at all, barely a sign of life in the archives, much less the undead.  _ Jon would have been noticeable by now,  _ she thought, remembering back to how he’d always end up waking her with his late-night work once he pushed past the point of being able to notice how much noise he made. She hoped, instead, he had forgotten to lock up this time. 

She resolved to wait a moment longer, knife in hand, tensing herself up for whatever was going on. If there was nothing, she could proceed. 

It might have been a moment. It might have been an eternity.

> _ Upon the last embrace of foes, _
> 
> _ When grappling in the fight they fold _
> 
> _ Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold: _
> 
> _ Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith; _
> 
> _ True foes, once met, are joined till death! _
> 
> _ With sabre shivered to the hilt, _
> 
> _ Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; _
> 
> _ Yet strained within the severed hand _
> 
> _ Which quivers round that faithless brand-- _

Melanie shook herself out of the trance, and found herself holding the paper from Jonathan in her hand, the final words on the page before the cutoff still buzzing on her lips. She’d opened it and started reading, but when? What was with the page that she could hardly resist reading it? 

She crushed the paper in her fist, feeling something barely restrained in her veins as she crumpled it down. The knife in her hands suddenly felt weightless, felt like it was meant to fit there. It was waiting, waiting to plunge into skin and flesh and feel it give way as warmth spilled down the sides and it would twist, ripping through muscle and sinew and blood.

“I was wondering when I would hear those words again.” A voice spoke from ahead of her, and without so much as a thought to lead into it, Melanie’s vision went red. She felt the natural and lithe movement of her body as a gutteral noise tore through her, and the knife went flying from where she stood and into the wall of the stairwell, inches from the man’s face. 

“Bouchard,” she hissed. It wasn’t a question. 

He hardly flinched as she marched up to him, looming into his stare despite being a few inches shorter, and pulled the knife out from the wall with a harsh tug. He met her gaze with a look that would have been better directed at an unacceptable suggestion at a staff meeting, rather than the woman with a knife to his throat. “I must say, I expected my old friend to send himself. He’s become careless, after all this time. I wonder if he knows how much easier he’d made this for me.” 

She pressed the blade closer to him, and he slowly pushed her arm aside, straining with his thin limbs against her determined muscle. She spat at him with a brash fury she didn’t know she was still capable of. “You think I won’t do it?” 

“I know you would,” Bouchard, or Magnus, or whatever he was called, replied, “but I don’t believe you can. Your knife could do considerable damage to this body, but unlike what you may believe, that will not mean you have won.”

“No,” she sneered back, “but burning the book- that would.” 

She caught the flash of fear in his eyes, a break in the calm mask that he quickly resumed. He straightened his tie. “I don’t know what Fanshawe told you, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” 

She lunged with a yell, and the tie and the collar of his shirt tore with a satisfying sound, the glancing blow of his arm only just enough to keep her from taking a chunk of his skin with it. “We’ll see about that.” 

The smile he gave her glowed with unnatural power that emanated as light from his eyes, like a bad photograph taken at night. In that moment, she hated that look, hated him, with more anger than she’d ever felt before. In that moment, he was everything she’d ever despised, and to add insult to everything, he smiled. “I really advise you to reconsider,  _ Miss King. _ ” 

And then his hand was at her throat.

* * *

Some instinct of Sasha’s pulled her back to the book. 

She was supposed to be focusing right now, they were looking for Jon, and for Martin. It’d been nearly a whole day since Jon hadn’t shown up, and then Tim got a text from Jon’s ex-girlfriend about him never showing up at home. Sure, it was possible that he and Martin were off canoodling somewhere, but the sharp professionalism that Jon tried to carry himself with about his work didn’t add up with a day of slacking off.

Elias had been no help, had barely seemed affected at all. None of his students had seen him, and his phone was likely long dead. Tim went from door to door physically, and then to ask for help from the police. Sasha did her best to ignore her distractions while she scoured her sources of information and the internet, but some deeper urge begged her to take the book out from her bag and look there. 

After hours of fruitless searching, she finally gave in to it. She made sure to clean her hands and the surface of the table thoroughly before opening it.

To her surprise, relief flooded through her as she began to read, some tension she was holding in herself finally released. It had the answers to what she was looking for, the satisfaction for her curiosity. She knew it somehow. Just  _ knew  _ it. 

She was halfway through the first part of the book when a hand knocked it just slightly out of her grip, and she looked up. She was out on the streets of London somewhere, having walked out without so much as thinking to grab a coat. The man that had bumped into her gave her an odd look, but quickly shuffled away. The rest of the block was entirely empty.

The old paper wrinkled under her hands and she had to hope that it wasn’t about to rain. What was she thinking, coming out all the way to wherever this way? What was she even reading?

She found she could not recall. In her confusion, she began to realize that she wasn’t able to register anything she’d done since she picked the book up. The gnaw of anxiety began to grow in her stomach, and she considered, for a moment, putting in a call to Tim. 

She just had to know what it was all about, however, recalling how well everything seemed to fit into place as she read. This might be the key to whatever was going on with Jon, if she could just remind herself what ‘this’ was. 

Sasha risked a glance down at the page, and found her place once more. She walked forward with a smile.

* * *

For the first time since he’d started visiting, Jon found that Mike’s Books was closed. The doors and windows had metal grating pulled down over them, which made it feel more like a jewel shop than a bookstore. Under the awning was a familiar man, dressed all in black.

Gerry Keay took a drag from his cigarette, glancing at Jon. After letting out a smoky sigh, he spoke. “You look like shit.” 

Jon let out a shaky laugh. “Things have gone to shit, really.” He took a step closer. “I need your help.”

Gerry offered him the cigarette, half-finished as it was. Jon, after careful deliberation, took it. He could always work up to quitting again, when he got Martin back. Right now he needed to hold on to the comforts he could get.

“What can I do?” Gerry asked. “I can get ahold of Mike if that’s-” 

“There’s something cursed or, or haunted or whatever about Peter Lukas,” Jon blurted, cutting him off. “My-” The word he was going to use to refer to Martin caught in his throat. It hurt to push past. ”Martin is trapped with him. I need to get him back.” 

Gerry’s eyes narrowed. “Lukas, you say?” He ground the toe of his boot into the sidewalk as if putting out the cigarete Jon now held. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to do anything, but I can tell you what I know.”

* * *

Melanie stood over the body of Elias Bouchard, hands covered in blood. Her knife was lodged in the upper left part of his chest, at the center of a red bloom across his torn white shirt. Her breathing was ragged and every part of her felt bruised and weathered. It took all of her patience to let him lie there, breathing out, and not kick out all of his teeth. The burning rage never subsided from her, only took a slight backstage to her more pressing thought.

She needed to find the stupid book. 

She pulled a page from his jacket, where Jonathan had suspected Jonah would keep such a thing, and tore it in half. She could burn it with the rest, in one go. Then, she stumbled away from the body and towards the rows and rows of shelves. There had to be hundreds of books here. 

She made her way towards the back, where the shelves started to look different, feel wrong. These books and loose pages weren’t the usual boring old paper clippings. 

It took a while before she pinpointed the book she assumed to be the correct one. It  _ felt  _ like what she was looking for, so she reached. 

In that moment, a firm hand wrapped into her hair and pulled her back, pinning her against a bony form. A knife, her knife, pressed up against her chin, and dripped blood down her front. The motion had splattered it all over her face and front, and she spat out the metallic taste. 

“Not so fast,” Jonah murmured from behind her. 

* * *

Sasha easily made her way past the cemetery gate. This was the way. She understood it all perfectly. This was the solution to the problems that they were having, the inevitable answer to her questions. It was all so simple, really.

She was too busy reading to really notice how she ended up back in the mausoleum. Or how the glass lid of the coffin was open, and ready for a new occupant. It wasn’t really relevant to her reading, and that was more important, of course. The book was so helpful, and offered so much, even at the pace she was reading. There was more she had to know. So fixing were the stories that this book told, she barely noticed the way her own body moved.

When the quiet clang of the lid closing over her startled her out of her reading, she blinked in dazed confusion. She was lying down now. 

What had she been reading? Something about a beautiful fairy, but more than that. Something about the truth, and life, and, oh it hardly mattered now. 

She closed her eyes and looked for the answers in sleep. 

* * *

A confused man stood and looked around at the unfamiliar woman in the coffin. He had no indication as to where he was, only that he stood in his own crypt, in the suit that he died in. 

If he was awake now, that meant it was time. 

“Oh, my dear Jonah,” he whispered reverently. “We’ve figured it out. You’ve done it.” He clasped his hands in muted excitement and stepped out into a London he wouldn’t recognize. 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Cormack, who still edits my work. I would not be half the writer I am without you.


End file.
